Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar
by questionablequotation
Summary: After the disastrous end of Harry's third year, Sirius and Remus scheme to lift Harry's spirits by sending him to the United States to learn to be an animagus. In the process, he ends up learning the truth about his infamous scar and how fight his war.
1. Number 4 and Drunken Schemes

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Numb. Harry James Potter was numb (and not comfortably). Shoulders sagging, he trudged up the stairs to his room, taking no notice of the cat flap at the bottom of the door or the absurd (it'd be comical, if it weren't so alarmingly indicative of neglect) number of locks lining the frame—they were, after all, old news for him. He didn't even take notice of the door slamming behind him, the many locks snapping and clicking shut, or his gargantuan uncle stomping down the stairs.

The boy flopped down onto his lumpy, stained mattress, wallowing too deeply in self-pity to bother removing his glasses, clothes, or shoes. An objective observer would (perhaps after calling child protective services) indulge his self-pity; he was merely a child, and one whose most deeply-held fantasy had been snatched away at the final moment.

Harry had just returned from his third year at Hogwarts, the (albeit ridiculously-named) premiere school of magic (of the witchcraft and wizardry variety, rather than the card tricks and sleight-of-hand variety) in the United Kingdom. His despondency was caused not only by his forced return to his relatives—whose attitudes toward his very existence ranged from indifference to outright hatred, and whose behavior toward his person ranged from neglect to abuse—but the fact that he had been so close, _so very, painfully close _to realizing his lifelong dream of living with someone who loved him. His long-lost (or, more precisely, long-imprisoned) godfather, Sirius Black, had been poised to adopt him. Then, of course, Harry's typical luck kicked in, and—after an alternately exhilarating and terrifying evening—Sirius was on the run as a fugitive from the corrupt "justice" of the Ministry of Magic, and Harry had been consigned to another summer with the Dursleys.

Emotionally exhausted (and cried-out, not that he'd ever admit it aloud), Harry fell asleep, and did not wake until dawn.

* * *

As Harry slept, two men were getting steadily more intoxicated at a dark, dingy pub that most passersby didn't even know was there. That was no fault of the bar's advertising practices; rather, it was due to the enchantments which hid it from the notice of muggles (that is, humans not born with magic). Indicative of the British magical community's seeming inability to name anything without being whimsical (after all, proprietors needed to make sure their clientele knew they were Magical with a capital M), the pub was perhaps predictably named "The Bubbling Boggart." Not that this matters. Anyway, the salient point was that two men sat in a booth, reminiscing about bygone days, and alternating tears of mirth and sorrow in approximately equal measure.

Both men appeared somewhat worse for the wear, and not only as a result of their inebriation. One was well past what could be called "thin," and deep into "gaunt" territory, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and almost skeletal hands. He had dull, scraggly charcoal hair, a hoarse, rasping voice, and conspicuous nervous tics (including a dog-like tendency to sniff at the air). His companion, though in somewhat better acute condition, still looked distinctly shabby, and had the appearance and bearing of a long-time sufferer of some chronic wasting disease.

As the clock struck midnight, the reminiscence faded to silence, and both men finished their drinks. The silence stretched almost a quarter of an hour, as both men gazed at the bottom of their glasses. Finally, one cleared his throat, and said to his brother-in-all-but-name "Remus...what are we going to do about Harry?" Their eyes met, and after decades of plotting and scheming together, it took but minutes to come up with a plan.


	2. Hard Work and Hangovers

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

As dawn broke in Surrey, a thin teenager awoke, instantly alert. Still clothed from the previous evening, he rolled out of bed and changed his clothes, knowing full well that the shower would not be available until after the Dursleys had completed their morning rituals. Not that it mattered, since he knew without trying the door that he was locked inside his room. There was nothing for it, he knew from years of experience, but to wait and think.

Harry found it funny (in an "I wonder why that is" sort of way) that he could sleep in like a typical lazy teenager ten months out of the year, but as soon as he was back at Number 4 Privet Drive, he would wake at the crack of dawn. He supposed that it was some habit stimulated by the very environment; while he felt comfort and a warm sense of belonging at Hogwarts, Number 4 brought only tension and loneliness. In addition, he mused, it probably didn't help that he had spent the better part of a decade (essentially since he was old enough to manipulate a spatula) waking up to make breakfast for his relatives.

The boy was drawn out of his contemplation by a comically-extended series of metallic clicks, snaps, and cracks before the door slammed open with sufficient force to knock out anyone in its way—a lesson that Harry had learned quickly and harshly the previous summer.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon snarled, and began to stomp away, no doubt displeased that he had been denied the pleasure of hitting Harry with the door. "Get downstairs and help your aunt with breakfast!"

Silently, Harry did as ordered (after opening his window to allow Hedwig out to hunt), finding it slightly amusing that _he_ was helping _his aunt_. Of course, Vernon Dursley would never imply that Harry had been in a position to do anything worthy of praise; thus, if he was pleased with his meal, he could praise his wife (whose actual contribution was no more helpful than ordering him not to over- or under-cook anything, and berating him at the slightest sound of dishes or utensils) while ignoring his nephew.

After his own typically meager breakfast (as all the bacon and sausage, and most of the eggs and toast had been practically chugged down by the Dursleys by the time he sat down), he went for a shower.

"Typical," he muttered darkly under his breath, as the cold water shocked his attention away from his unsatisfied hunger; his relatives had, as usual, used up all of the hot water (Dudley had even been known to leave the shower on during breakfast, just to make sure Harry froze). "Bloody Dursleys."

After toweling himself dry, Harry returned to the kitchen table, to address the list of chores he knew his aunt had left him before Vernon dropped her off at the shops on his way to work. He took one look at the list, and sighed, "It's going to be a long summer."

* * *

Several hours later, while a boy in Surrey mowed the grass in the oppressive heat and humidity and about 40 kilometers away, as noon broke in London, two men—scruffy, unshaven, disheveled, and generally looking somewhat worse for the wear—began to drag themselves off the furniture upon which they had collapsed and passed out the night before.

"Kreacher," Sirius Black groaned. "Hangover potion. Eggs. Bacon. Greasy food. Now."

Seconds later, he was hit directly in the face by a tray full of eggs, bacon, sausage, and hot grease; as he jumped up and howled in rage and pain, a vial of hangover potion sailed past his ear and smacked Remus Lupin in the eye.

Cackling madly about blood traitors, bad masters, and half-breeds, the crazed elf disappeared with a muted pop, and Sirius was left to clean up the mess, heal his new burns (which were thankfully minor enough to address with the fairly simple, ever-useful _episkey_ charm), and split the awful-tasting hangover potion with Remus.

"I can't wait until that wretched little lunatic gets on Buckbeak's bad side," Remus growled, before snapping his fingers as his recollections of the previous night's scheme was (mostly) restored by the hangover potion. "Speaking of vicious creatures, I'll go send that owl."

Remus Lupin had lived a hard life; forced to the fringes of society by deeply-entrenched prejudices against those afflicted with lycanthropy, he had spent most of his adult life jumping from one odd job to the next, taking whatever work he could wherever he could find it. Several years ago, his wanderings had taken him to the United States of America, where the prevailing attitudes, though still negative due to the nature of the curse, were generally more relaxed and tolerant. He had found a seasonal job at—of all places!—a muggle sporting stadium in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and had become friendly with several coworkers who were members of the Menominee tribe of Native Americans, which had a reservation in nearby (by American standards, anyway) Menominee County.

Significantly, witches and wizards in North America tended to associate much more closely with their non-magical (the term "muggle" was deemed too condescending for use in polite society) counterparts, and Native American magic-users took this tendency so far enough that the existence of magic was practically an open secret among Native American communities. Thus, in short order, Remus had found himself working his off-nights as a bartender at a bar in Keshena, the county seat. There, he had found a surprising amount of acceptance, and had even found several animagi willing to keep him company on his monthly full moon run (or "FMR," as James Potter had often called the Marauders' monthly shenanigans). These wizards—often referred to as "shamans" or "medicine-men" by their non-magical tribal counterparts—had used a very different (and arguably superior, in both its relative ease and likelihood of success) method from their European counterparts to achieve the animagus transformation.

The accepted process in most European magical communities for becoming an animagus involved several hallucinogenic potions to determine one's appropriate animagus form, a months- or years-long study of that creature's anatomy and physiology, and hundreds of increasingly-intricate transfigurations. The traditional Native American process, however, recognized that animals are not driven by logical, iterative processes; rather, they are moved by emotion and strength of will. Therefore, prospective animagi fasted for a day (to get in touch with their hunger), performed a brief (but exhausting) ritual, and slept out in the open under a dark moon, during which time their dreams would unveil their animagus form. The next lunar cycle would be spent having increasingly-lucid dreams, during which the wizard would become increasingly familiar with the primal drives of the animal within. The next new moon after this lunar cycle, the wizard would "become one with the animal spirit," and spend the rest of the night in animal form. If successful, the newly-minted animagus would be able to transform at will, and—unlike those who followed the European method—would retain (usually beneficial) facets of the animal even in human form.

After hearing Sirius recount the details of his capture by Snape and subsequent escape from the Ministry at Hogwarts—particularly the fact that Harry, as a mere third-year, had called forth sufficient emotional strength and willpower to fuel a patronus capable of routing over a hundred dementors—over drinks the previous night, Remus had immediately thought of the Menominee animagi and how well Harry would probably take to their teaching methods. Sirius had thought it a brilliant plan, if for no other reason than the fact that it would get Harry out of Number 4 Privet Drive while the two faithful Marauders began their hunt for Peter Pettigrew. Both men also recognized that Harry could benefit greatly from becoming an animagus, as he would undoubtedly see it as a way to become closer to his father, who—as the resident transfiguration expert—had spearheaded the Marauders' efforts at achieving the animagus transformation at Hogwarts, not to mention the fact that the animagus transformation could be a particularly useful piece of magic both in combat and for subterfuge.

The rented owl winged off on its transcontinental journey, aided significantly by a portkey set to take the owl directly to the closest point in the Commonwealth directly north of American airspace—from there, it was a relatively short flight south to Wisconsin. It carried a missive to one of Remus's old regulars from the bar who had introduced him to the Menominee animagi, and a request to respond as soon as possible. As luck would have it, he wouldn't have to wait very long.

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**

I've thrown in the Captain's Log entry from 5/16/2014 below, and removed it from my profile page. This is to more accurately comply with, if not the letter, than the spirit of the rules and guidelines for posting stories.

I'm two chapters into _Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar_, and I've already noticed that I tend to lean heavily on narration, and am a bit light on dialogue. I've read stories that leaned the other way, and I sometimes found myself almost irritated with the lack of description. I'm sure there's a happy medium somewhere, and it'll probably take me a while to work it out. If you choose to review, let me know what you think of this.

Also, I should take this opportunity to note that at this point, I don't intend for _HPatLS_ to include any significant romantic subplot; perhaps there might be a dalliance or two, but that's about it. Generally, I have difficulty imagining Harry getting into successful romantic relationships; he literally spent his formative years alternating between different forms of abuse and neglect, and none of his adult role models (the Dursleys, Arabella Figg, and his professors at Hogwarts) are shining examples of having successful relationships. The Dursleys are abusive caricatures, Figg is literally an "old cat lady," and his professors at Hogwarts all either endanger his life, are blatantly unprofessional, abdicate their responsibilities (leaving them to children, no less), or refuse to give him the time of day when he brings them problems, despite his proven track record of saving peoples' lives. Basically, the bottom line is that Harry Potter is going to be one severely emotionally-stunted kid. Even in canon, he constantly displays problems obtaining and maintaining both romantic and platonic interpersonal relationships, due in no small part to the fact that he never had the opportunity to learn by example-he doesn't really understand love of any kind (ironic, considering canon Dumbledore's insistence that it's his superpower). From a writing standpoint, I'm also not a huge fan of romantic subplots, especially the "happily ever after" kind where Harry is suddenly an Edwardian or Victorian gentleman-straight out of a Jane Austen novel-who meets his True Redheaded Love in the magical equivalent of junior high because that's what James Potter did as a kid, and he isn't going to suddenly become a serial-shagging lady-killer just because that's what Sirius Black did as a kid. _I mean, come on!_

As for horcruxes and Hallows, I haven't quite decided. I've got a loose framework into which I can shove them, but honestly I don't think the story needs them. And you can't really have one without the other-if you've got horcruxes, the Ring has to have some significance, which means the other Hallows have to be there (because each of the Big Three-Albus, Harry, and Tom-need to have one, for the sake of storytelling symmetry), and if you've got Hallows, you need horcruxes as an excuse to get the Ring into Tom's hands, and he can't recognize it as a Hallow because he has to be shown as arrogant and ignorant of the "older" magics, as a contrast to Humble Harry and Wise Albus. Wandlore might play a minor role (probably because I've spent enough time playing Dungeons and Dragons to be a certified magical-item-junkie), but I still hold that the whole "defeat a master to earn a wand's loyalty" thing is dumb because it makes practice dueling ridiculous, and wands-as symbolic and Magic With a Capital M as they are-are just pieces of wood with some animal bits shoved inside (as opposed to beings which use their sentience solely to spite those they deem unworthy). So the more I think of it, probably no Hallows (because I don't like the Elder Wand as a fair-weather friend), which means no horcruxes. Eh. END LOG.


	3. Dinner and a Show

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Tuesday, June 21 was the second full day of Harry's summer (the Hogwarts Express having returned to King's Crossing on Sunday). Having showered before bed and collapsed—exhausted from the day's labors—just before midnight, Harry nevertheless awoke at dawn, and found himself following the previous day's script almost to the second. He was relieved, though, to find that the list of chores for the day was substantially shorter than that of the previous day. His relatives would never admit it, but Harry had been extremely efficient and productive, qualities forged of long experience and his desperate desire to keep his mind occupied on anything not related to the Marauders and the summer that might have been, as he knew that fantasizing about a life with Sirius and Remus would do him no good—and no small amount of ill—since it would almost certainly never be realized.

As he scrubbed the kitchen floor, he was startled from his idle musing by a loud squawk, as a large gray post owl dodged Dudley's pudgy hands in the sitting room.

"Get this ruddy bird out of here," Dudley whined, "it's blocking the telly!"

Harry immediately moved to relieve the obviously tired owl of its burden, and carried it upstairs to drink from Hedwig's water bowl. He grinned as he opened it, instantly recognizing Sirius's ostentatious paw print and Remus's somewhat more dignified script.

_Harry,_

_I'm planning on taking Snuffles hunting for rats, so we won't be able to spend much time with you this summer. That said, there is a plan in place that I think you'll enjoy a great deal. Owl back if you want us to come by tonight and discuss the details. Hopefully you haven't unpacked your trunk yet._

_Remus (and Snuffles)_

Harry's eyes widened as he read the quick note, and immediately dashed off a reply, heart pounding all the time. Could it be that this summer was looking up?

_Remus and Snuffles,_

_I can't wait to see you tonight. Come after dinner, around seven—if nothing else, it wouldn't hurt to let the Dursleys know I've got the big bad wolf and an ill-tempered hound looking out for me._

_Harry_

The remainder of the day was almost intolerably slow, as Harry checked and re-checked that his trunk was packed with all of his possessions. Finally, after clearing away the dishes from dinner, Harry looked at his watch and sighed with relief. _6:5__5__ PM. _He cleared his throat and addressed his relatives.

"Um...Uncle Vernon? Aunt Petunia?"

"What do you want, boy?", Vernon asked, clearly not paying Harry much mind.

"I just wanted to tell you both that some...of my lot...are stopping in tonight."

The response was—as he had anticipated—pure chaos. Dudley fell off his seat in fear, and scampered (well, more like waddled quickly) off to his room, covering his behind. Petunia's face paled, and she froze in place. Vernon stuttered, his face turning a deep purple, before finally finding the words he wanted.

"WHAT IN BLAZES DO YOU MEAN?! WE'LL NOT HAVE THEIR KIND IN OUR HOUSE! ONE IS BAD ENOUGH!"

Harry allowed his wand, which had been holstered up his right sleeve, to slip down into his hand. The movement did not go unnoticed, and his uncle's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Harry opened his mouth to explain, but before he could speak, the doorbell rang, and Harry's uncertain expression turned to a small but confident smile as he strode to the sitting room and threw open the door and looked up into a kindly concerned face.

"Everything alright, Harry?" Remus asked, drawing his wand.

"Yeah, it's all good. I was just telling my relatives that you were coming to visit. Where is—"

He was interrupted mid-sentence by a huge black dog, which tackled him and began licking his face. After losing a short wrestling match (which the Dursleys looked upon with horror and Remus looked upon with a satisfied grin), Harry and the Grim extricated themselves from each other.

"Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon," Harry stated, gesturing towards his relatives, before pointing at Remus and Sirius in turn. "This is Remus Lupin, werewolf and master of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and this is Sirius Black, late of Azkaban prison." The Dursleys gasped in shock and fear; while they had been distracted by Harry and Remus, the dog had transformed into the escaped mass murderer they had seen in the news for the last year.

"Nice to meet you, Dursley" Sirius said genially, before his expression turned glacial. "I trust you've looked after my godson?"

The not-so-veiled threat hung in the air, weighing down the ensuing silence. Nothing further needed to be said; the message had obviously been received loud and clear. The three wizards gave the Dursleys a pointed look before Harry gestured toward the stairs, and the Dursleys fled to the master bedroom.

"Well, then" Harry prompted.

"Ah! Yes. To business," Remus took up the thread of conversation, and quickly explained their plan to seek out Peter Pettigrew, compel his testimony, and clear Sirius's name.

"...and your letter also mentioned some sort of plan for me?" Harry asked.

Remus and Sirius looked at each other, then turned back to Harry with identical grins. Harry was immediately and forcibly reminded of Fred and George Weasley, right as they were about to do something they probably shouldn't.

"I think you're going to like this."


	4. Grimmauld Place and Cheating the Trace

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Mere minutes later, three resounding cracks heralded the arrival of Sirius, Remus, and Harry (who was clutching Remus's arm) in front of a dilapidated home.

"Welcome," Sirius intoned gravely (though the effect was ruined by his clownish grin) "To Number 12 Grimmauld Place, ancestral home of the Black family!"

It was certainly aptly-named, Harry thought. He was instantly given the impression that ominous organ music should be playing in the background, with lightning flashing overhead. It was _that_ kind of place, complete with spiked iron fences, ratty black shutters, and a general air of death and decay. Harry gave off an involuntary shudder, and began moving toward the door.

Once in the sitting room—and still shaking off the twitches from his first time side-along apparating—Harry remarked that it hadn't felt that stressful when he had done it alone, which immediately drew the attention of the two older wizards.

"What?" Sirius and Remus asked simultaneously. "How and when did you apparate by yourself before?" Remus prompted.

Harry paused, wondering whether he should have mentioned it. Knowing that he couldn't un-ring a bell, he continued, "Once when I was running away from some kids after school"—he carefully omitted Dudley's key role, knowing it would only set the two men off about the Dursleys—"I was really scared, and I saw the school roof; I knew they couldn't get me if I was up there, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the roof."

Remus and Sirius shared a significant glance. "We can definitely exploit this," Remus said seriously. "If we can get you into form on apparation—enough that you can pass the American apparation license exam—you can get a license there, and it will be honored in Britain."

"Why would Britain honor any American licenses?" Harry asked, not quite understanding.

"It's a requirement for all member countries of the International Confederation of Wizards," Sirius replied. "Registration and licensing any regulated magic can be done in any ICW nation, which is another great reason to have you get your apparation license and register as an animagus in America, rather than Britain. It's far away enough—and unexpected enough—that nobody in Britain will think to request records from there to find out what you can do, but you will still be able to technically abide by the law."

"That's right," Remus noted, nodding. "Even better, apparation licensing and animagus regulation in America is done at the state level, which means anyone looking to find out about you will have to request and sift through records from all fifty states and several protected territories, and that's if someone looking for you manages to narrow the search down to America. Plus, owl post and records requests from those offices isn't cheap—we're talking about several man-hours of the office clerk's time, plus the fee for international owls. Basically, it will be enough trouble and expense that the only time you'll be exposed is if you need to prove that you've registered to get yourself out of trouble with the Ministry, which pretty much means that you've already been exposed anyway."

Harry was impressed. The two pranksters had clearly thought this plan through. Except...

"What about a wand? I'm still underage."

Sirius grinned. "Yes, the British Ministry of Magic Trace is still active on your wand until you're of age. You'll get away with doing underage magic out of school the same way generations of Blacks did—by cheating."

"Basically," interrupted Remus, taking up the thread, "wealthy, well-connected families like the Blacks buy wands in bulk, to have their own wand inventory. That way, the wands are registered to adult members of the family, so the Trace isn't active on them, while there are enough wands that it's practically guaranteed that the underage family members will find one that matches well enough to practice, and function as a back-up."

"Brilliant!" Harry exulted. "Can I take a look now?"

Sirius led the way down to the cellars—one level of which had the look of an abandoned training room—and into the armory. Racks upon racks of swords, axes, and other assorted medieval weapons (and the armor to match) filled the room. At the back, though, were scores of shelved wands, each with a brief description engraved on the holster.

"Go ahead, try some out" Sirius instructed. "See if you can't find one or two that work for you—you won't be able to get away with using your holly wand, so it'll be good to have one primary wand and one backup."

Perhaps it was the (albeit small amount of) Black blood in Harry's veins, but the search went much faster than it had when Harry was buying his first wand. In fact, the second wand he tried (12 inches, ebony and dragon heartstring) was only just barely a lesser match than his holly wand, showering the three with blazing golden sparks as he curled his fingers around it. After trying several more, he found another to be his backup (10 inches, cedar and dragon heartstring), which let loose a pleasant humming sound and glowed blue as he picked it up.

By this time, it was nearing 9 PM, but everyone was too excited to prepare for bed. Instead, they held an impromptu three-way duel, pausing every few minutes to teach Harry (typically in hilarious Marauder fashion) new tricks and spells. Before they knew it, the clock was tolling midnight, and Harry was suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion.

Noticing Harry's flagging endurance, Remus called a halt to their game, and shooed the other two off to bed. Before closing the door on "his" new room (which had once belonged to Regulus, Sirius's now-deceased brother), Harry made Sirius and Remus promise to spend the next morning teaching him how to apparate. He barely managed to pull off his ratty old trainers before closing his eyes, the last of his energy well and truly spent.


	5. Learning, Buying, and Planning

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry awoke, groaning, just after 8 AM on the morning of June 22. He had been too tired the previous night to realize just how bruised and beaten the three-way duel had left him, but he was certainly feeling it now. After staggering to the bathroom and taking a long, relaxing (hot, for once!) bath, he made his way downstairs to the dining room, where a welcome sight sat before him.

He immediately felt better upon seeing the state of Sirius and Remus. Both men were slumped in their chairs, barely conscious, and nursing cups of coffee with half-shut eyes. Harry grinned.

"Good morning Moony, Padfoot! Ready for some apparation training?"

"Bluhhhhh," Remus managed, while Sirius's simply head lolled to the side, drool running down his chin.

"Hmm. Lovely. After breakfast, then."

Breakfast was another exercise in resistance from Kreacher; the elf happily supplied the wizards with burnt toast, cold eggs, and soggy bacon, before cackling madly and disappearing off to do...well, whatever it was that he normally did, wherever it was that he normally did it. It certainly wasn't cleaning, Harry mused, flicking a large ball of dust at Sirius.

"Alright, get up you two lazy old louts," Harry commanded, while turning Remus's hair orange and Sirius's shirt pink. "You're both teaching me how to apparate today, starting now."

A few stinging hexes and prank jinxes later, the three had made their way back downstairs to the training room, which still bore the marks of their battle the previous night. Sirius conjured several hula hoops, and tossed them about the room, and began to lecture.

"Okay, so the first thing we're going to do is ignore how the Ministry teaches apparation," he began. "All that Three D's crap is a load of...well...crap. You are going to learn apparation the way the old families teach it."

"What are the Three D's?" Harry asked.

"The Three D's: Destination, Determination and Deliberation," Remus intoned pompously, clearly doing an excellent Percy Weasley impression. "Basically, the Ministry teaches apparation to the lowest common denominator. It's the easy way to learn, but it is less efficient and just generally worse than the "real" way. Since you're a wizard with power and skill well above your age—and as you showed last night, the reflexes to go with it—you're going to learn without the training wheels, and you'll be better off for it."

Harry nodded, understanding the reference; unfortunately, Sirius did not. A lengthy explanation about bicycles and their place in muggle society followed, ending with Remus shaking his head and muttering about being "saddled with a ruddy idiot of a pureblood."

"Moving on," Sirius interrupted, "the bottom line is that apparation is quite simple, but people making a big deal about "being old enough to do it" and the Ministry regulating it has given it a bit of a mystique, which can intimidate people. The Ministry goes on and on about splinching and whatnot, but if you do it right, you'll be fine."

"Basically, you said it all last night, when you were talking about going onto that roof" Remus continued. "The real way to do it is to decide where you want to be, and use your magic to make it so. The way the Ministry teaches it, you'd spin on your heel and twirl your wand while concentrating on where you want to be, but that's just a way to mentally associate something—in this case, a physical movement—to help you focus your magic into doing what you want. Also, if you're not really practiced in it, those movements can actually distract you from your apparation, which will make splinching more likely."

"So, there's a hoop," Sirius said, pointing across the room to one of the hoops he had thrown. "Apparate into it. You've got ten seconds, and then I'm going to start casting jinxes at you."

Harry concentrated on the hoop. He imagined himself being there. After about five seconds, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Sirius raising his wand. Harry gritted his teeth and _pushed—_

The sharp crack echoed around the room. Harry looked back, and saw Sirius and Remus looking at him proudly. He grinned, and with another crack—this one somewhat quieter, as Harry had realized that he had "pushed" far harder than was really necessary—he was back in front of his godfather.

"Let's play a game," Remus proposed. "We played it at James's parents' house during the summer after sixth year. Sirius and I will shoot spells at you. You get to apparate to any hoop, at will, but you can't shield or dodge—if a spell is coming your way, apparate to a different hoop. Once you get the hang of it, you'll have it for good, and you'll quickly learn what a great help apparation can be in a fight—a lot of wizards who rely on the Ministry's method can't apparate in a fight quickly enough to dodge spells, and because they "need" to spin to do it, they can't apparate while running, either."

Harry grinned, and apparated across the room; the game was on. After about ten minutes, he was getting hit much less, and clearly had apparation down. Sirius called a halt, vanished the hoops, and upped the ante—they would re-enact the previous night's three-way duel, except with apparation thrown in.

They could only duel for about thirty minutes; the addition of apparation made it much more exhausting. Three tired, bruised, but extremely satisfied wizards dragged themselves back up the stairs for water, and collapsed onto the chairs at the dining room table.

"You know, Harry," Remus began. "You'll need to hit Diagon Alley to pick up some cash for your trip, and you need to get some muggle clothing that will pass muster."

"Muggle clothing?" said Harry, a bit surprised. "I thought I'd be with wizards the whole time."

"Well, you'll be learning magic from wizards, but that doesn't mean you need to spend all your time with them," Remus replied. "The world is a big place, and there's plenty to do. Plus, like I said last night, wizards associate much more closely with muggles in America than we do in Britain, so they wear muggle clothing most of the time. If you showed up in robes, people would just think you're weird."

Harry nodded; actually he was pleased he would have a reason to get some nice muggle clothes. Most of his muggle clothing was handed down from Dudley, and what few things he owned that had been purchased to fit him were now too small. Harry was short and thin for his age, but he _did_ still grow. Luckily, he had had the foresight to get his Gringotts key from Hagrid before the end of term. He had gone down to Hagrid's cabin the night before the leaving feast to visit with the huge man and let him know how Buckbeak had been set free (without giving too much detail regarding the whereabouts or plans of Sirius Black).

Sensing that he should strike while the iron was hot, he had asked the very grateful Hagrid for his vault key; after all, he had reasoned, he might need money for things when Hagrid wasn't around, and he should start dealing with his own finances. Hagrid, in his gratitude—and admittedly lubricated somewhat by several large mugs of ale—had immediately acquiesced. Harry was glad to be back in control of his vault; it had always rubbed him the wrong way that Dumbledore, while supposedly a great and powerful wizard, effectively had personal control over Harry's finances. He wasn't sure why Dumbledore had felt entitled to take such liberties with his affairs—especially considering the fact that the man was merely his school headmaster (as his roles in the Wizengamot and the ICW certainly had no such authority over his property)—and had resolved to confront the man about it upon returning to school in September. Such interference would never have been possible in the muggle world, after all, and Harry was quickly becoming determined to be more independent.

"Alright," Harry said. "How about we shower, eat lunch, and then head out to get it done with?"

After a brief shower and a light lunch—which Harry made, not in the mood for another Kreacher Special—Remus and Harry (with Sirius staying behind, on account of being a fugitive from the Ministry) apparated to the sidewalk in front of Gringotts. The trip was quick and efficient; rather than going down to the vault, Harry simply withdrew money from the teller, in the form of 500 galleons, 500 pounds sterling, and 500 US dollars. Harry learned that he could get US dollars from one of the Gringotts branch banks in America, so he didn't bother picking up any more than he might need to have on hand for the first few weeks in the states. Happily, he was in and out in less than ten minutes.

The shopping was similarly efficient, taking less than an hour. Neither Harry nor Remus was inclined towards fashion, and both shared at least a moderate distaste with clothes shopping. Harry tried on a few pairs of jeans until he learned his size, then got several essentially identical pairs (though in slightly different shades of blue). He picked up a few packs of assorted-color t-shirts, a light jacket, new underwear, a dozen pairs of socks, and a new pair of trainers. After some brief consideration, he also purchased a sturdy, comfortable pair of boots, assuming (correctly, as it would turn out) that much of the magic he'd be learning with the Menominee would be done outside.

Through unspoken agreement, the pair immediately headed back to Number 12 upon completion of their errands; both were keenly aware of how negatively Sirius was affected by being alone in that dreary place. Neither wanted him to be alone there any more than was absolutely necessary. It was unsurprising, then, that their return to the Black family home was met with a series of pranks and traps, ranging from mildly irritating to what in any other company would certainly be at least somewhat humiliating. Remus and Harry looked at each other, silently agreeing to take it in good humor, and immediately began to return fire. Their gambit was successful, as Sirius was obviously cheered. The rest of the time before dinner (which turned out well, as they had decided to order pizza rather than deal with Kreacher) was spent drilling Harry on some of the spells he had learned in their three-way duels; they held off on a rematch because Remus was feeling rather ill (since the full moon was to rise the next night).

There being a least a few hours remaining before bedtime, the trio sat down and fleshed out the itinerary for Harry's upcoming expedition. He would depart the next afternoon right before lunch (it was always best to take international portkeys on a relatively empty stomach), and arrive in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, which had a thriving magical community. Once through customs, he would proceed to the nearest apparation test center (conveniently located in Philadelphia's City Hall), and obtain his apparation license, which would be recorded by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Department of Magic (or, colloquially, PennDoM).

He planned to stay in Philadelphia through the 4th of July (which was celebrated in America as "Independence Day," and the fireworks display in Philadelphia was reputed to be among the best in the country). He would proceed northwest to Wisconsin—via portkey, as it was probably too far for a relative novice at apparation—the next day, where he would rendezvous with Morris Oshkosh (a descendant of a 19th century chief of the tribe), who would assist him with the animagus transformation and put him up at his inn. This assistance would not be free, of course; Harry would work part-time doing odd jobs around the reservation. Remus suggested that Harry take the opportunity to play the tourist by taking a few day-trips to points of interest in the United States, when he wasn't otherwise occupied with learning magic or doing work. It was a good suggestion, and Harry already had a few points in mind. The trip promised to be quite an adventure—best of all, without the mortal danger to which Harry was accustomed.

For the first time in days, Harry was coherent enough to disrobe and prepare for bed, before peacefully dozing off, already dreaming about the adventure to come.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I've thrown in the Captain's Log entry from 5/18/2014 below, and removed it from my profile page. This is to more accurately comply with, if not the letter, than the spirit of the rules and guidelines for posting stories.

Well, I'm up to five chapters now! I've gotta say, writing is definitely a good way to pass the time, and it definitely does get the creative juices flowing. I might be slowing down soon-now that the plot is beginning to move, there will be longer chapters (as you can tell just by looking at chapter 5, which is twice as long as any of those previous), and I've also got some stuff to do after work tomorrow (not the least of which is watching tonight's episode of Game of Thrones).

So far, I've gotten several reviews, and they're encouraging. This being the internet, I'll admit that I kind of expected about half of them to be blatant flaming or trolling, but I'm pleased to note that they are all quite kind. Feel free to post whatever you like, particularly if it is some sort of constructive criticism (you can also PM me, if you are more comfortable with that).

On the subject of familiars: I don't really see Hedwig as Harry's familiar, at least not in the sense that they have some extraordinary bond. She's a post owl. A pretty post owl, but generally just a post owl. She and Harry don't have some special understanding. Even when she is killed in canon, Harry gets over it quite quickly. I would imagine that if Fawkes were killed (perma-death, not just phoenix-death), Dumbledore would be shattered, as there is clearly some greater bond between them. I also don't think that Nagini is Tom's familiar-I don't believe that he is capable of emotionally bonding to another being in any role aside from domination, and the familiar bond as I imagine it would be more of a partnership. I'm considering letting in _one_ fanfiction cliche regarding this subject; I'll decide for sure soon enough. Now, it's off to bed for me. END LOG.


	6. The British Invasion

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The morning of Thursday, June 23 was one of nearly frantic activity. Harry rose from bed at just before 9 AM, showered quickly, dressed even quicker, and practically sprinted downstairs to eat breakfast. Kreacher, knowing this was his last opportunity to do battle against the "mongrel half-blood," had made what _appeared_ to be a delicious breakfast—enough that Harry forgot who he was dealing with, and bit into an innocent-looking doughnut. Unfortunately, that doughnut happened to be filled, not with cream or jam, but with mayonnaise. Retching, Harry tried to wash the taste out of his mouth with what looked like pumpkin juice, but which was in fact carefully-diluted muddy rainwater.

Not willing to take a chance on the bacon or eggs—for only God knew what the little nutcase had done to them, but it probably wasn't pleasant—Harry banished the table's centerpiece (a creepy black iron vase embossed with creepier images depicting either torture or extremely kinky sex; Harry didn't know which was more inappropriate for the dining table) at the elf, and made himself some oatmeal after firing a _scourgify_ into his mouth. He did not, however, feel that it was necessary to warn Sirius or Remus of the sabotaged meal, checking only to ensure that Kreacher hadn't put powdered silver or something actually harmful into the food before sitting back to watch the show. It was only fair, he thought, since he was certain the two older wizards had tried to use him as a "Kreacher minesweeper" by waiting until he had gone down to eat before descending themselves.

Actually, he mused, watching the elf dodge hexes from—and hurl insults at—two enraged wizards, Kreacher definitely had a bit of Marauder in him, even if it was tempered by Walburga Black's unrepentant bigotry and malicious intent.

Finally, the elf retreated, and the Marauders settled down (as much as the two Marauders ever settled down, that is). Neither had yet noticed the charm Harry had used to tie their shoelaces together as soon as the were seated; that, he figured, would be the one last prank he played on them before his departure that afternoon. Excusing himself to go pack, he listened closely for the telltale sound of two pranksters tripping and falling, and grinned broadly as he heard Sirius's loud "Bollocks! One of these days I'm going to kill that damn elf!"

Harry didn't have much to pack, and what he did have was packed away very quickly, as he could now use simple charms to do the work for him. He was slightly worried about Hedwig; it was too far of a journey for her to fly, but owls generally reacted poorly to portkeys. It was unavoidable, though; she would simply have to suck it up. He knew she'd be even more irritated by the fact that she'd have to make the trip under a glamour—she would appear to be a large parrot, which he was certain she would find undignified. He packed plenty of owl treats to make sure he'd be able to get back in her good graces; this did not save him from a haughty "hoot" and one last vengeful peck, hard enough to draw blood, as he closed her cage.

As he finished up, his thoughts drifted to Hermione and Ron. He had not told them of his summer plans, or even that he had left the tender care of the Dursleys, and he was not going to do so. What left him slightly surprised at first, though, was that he did not feel even remotely guilty about it, though even a brief reflection gave him ample reason to keep his plans secret. He knew that Hermione would immediately try to talk him out of it—after all, Dumbledore had told him to remain at Number 4 Privet Drive, and to her, that made it practically gospel, despite there being no good reason why the headmaster of a school should have any say in his holiday plans—and then, failing that, would inform Dumbledore that his wishes were being ignored. This, of course, would lead to Dumbledore tracking him down, pulling the "disappointed grandpa/schoolteacher/wise old wizard" routine, and finding some way to ensure that he could not leave Number 4. Ron would first immediately tell Hermione, and then somehow find a way to be jealous of Harry's good fortune, conveniently forgetting that he had gone on a trip to Egypt the previous summer (a trip about which he had boasted frequently and at great length throughout the previous school year). Either way, Harry's plans would be ruined and his friendships stained by the unavoidable betrayal of his confidences, though neither of them would consider their inevitable reactions as such. No, Harry had no intention of letting either of his closest friends in on his plans; this was to be _his_ adventure, and maybe, _maybe_ he would tell them about it on the train ride back to Hogwarts.

Clearing his head of such weighty thoughts, Harry noticed suddenly that he had been done packing for quite some time. He went back downstairs to have one last chat with Sirius and Remus, who were currently reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Rather, Remus was reading the newspaper, and Sirius was trying to distract him by attempting—badly—to juggle what looked to be quite expensive ornaments. After shattering and _reparo_-ing all three ornaments for the fifth time, Sirius gave up, and turned his full attention to Harry, who was just then walking into the room.

"Oi 'arry, lad, geh o'er 'ere," Sirius called, doing a fairly good impression of Hagrid. "Take a look at this."

Sirius held out a small mirror, and Harry took it in his hand.

"Thanks, Sirius, but I'm pretty sure no amount of primping is going to get my hair to lay flat," Harry joked.

Remus cracked a grin and Sirius barked out a laugh. "Oh good one, godson of mine," Sirius said, still chuckling a bit. "I have one, too. These are communication mirrors. Just look into it and say my name, and we'll be able to talk at any distance. Sort of like a portable floo."

"Brilliant!" Harry almost shouted; even after three years of exposure to the magical world, he was still constantly surprised at the number of clever spells and artifacts. "I was worried about how we'd stay in touch, since it's clearly too far for an owl, and if you're hunting the rat, you won't always have access to a floo."

Harry immediately cast an unbreakable charm on the mirror; it wouldn't protect against spellfire, but it would keep it from being broken if he dropped it or fell down with the mirror in his pocket. Remus gave a satisfied nod, approving at Harry's foresight. Sirius—apparently having never thought of this precaution—surreptitiously performed the same charm on his mirror, but the sly grins shot between Harry and Remus were clear indications that he had been caught.

"I'll call you on the mirror after I get my apparation license," Harry said, "and any time I have news or plan on going on a day-trip. And I guess if I just fancy a chat, since it's going to be so easy to call."

"Good idea; Sirius and I were actually going to ask you to do just that" Remus said, pleased that Harry was not just willing, but excited to keep in contact—few other teenage boys would have the same consideration. The Marauders at that age certainly wouldn't. "We'll call you with updates on the rat hunt, and with any information we hear about Dumbledore, Hogwarts, or your friends. Also," he continued, presenting Harry with a plum-sized bouncy ball, "here is your portkey to Philadelphia. It'll go off the first time you say "the British are coming" after bouncing it once."

"One more thing, Harry," Sirius said, his countenance somewhat more somber than normal. "This"—he held out his hand, and resting in his palm was a thin bronze ring—"is an emergency portkey. It will take you back here, right to this sitting room, from anywhere in the world. If you get in trouble, say the activation phrase—"sanctuary"—and it will get you back to safety. And don't worry, Remus and I are also carrying one each."

"We made it last night, after you went to bed," Remus said. "See the runes etched on the inside of the band? They will make the portkey charm last as long as the ring is intact, and the runes on the outside of the band will protect it against melting, cutting, or being crushed. We used to carry portkeys like this during the war against Voldemort; in fact, the only reason your parents didn't use them to escape that night was that Voldemort had laid down a powerful anti-portkey jinx over the house—that's why Sirius had to fly in on his motorcycle."

"Thanks, you two," Harry said as he slipped the ring onto his left little finger (where it immediately became invisible), both astonished and touched at how much effort the two men—whom he actually barely knew—were putting into making sure he had a fun, safe summer. Being looked after by people who actually cared about him was a new but entirely welcome feeling, and Harry knew that this year would be the first time he'd ever almost regret leaving for Hogwarts in September.

Harry gave each Marauder a tight hug, then grasped his trunk's handle and Hedwig's cage, and bounced the ball, "arming" the portkey.

"Thank you so much for everything," Harry said, suddenly emotional. "I'm going to miss you guys."

Remus and Sirius were both visibly blinking back tears, also somewhat overcome by the nature of the situation. Harry was, after all, their best friend's only heir (and virtual doppelganger), their student, their de facto ward (at least from now on), and the closest thing either man had to a son, and they were now saying goodbye after just barely getting to know him.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Sirius called, while Remus simultaneously said "try to stay out of trouble!"

The three broke into laughter, and Harry, grinning, called out the activation phrase for the portkey.

"The British are coming!"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I've thrown in the Captain's Log entry from 5/19/2014 below, and removed it from my profile page. This is to more accurately comply with, if not the letter, than the spirit of the rules and guidelines for posting stories.

I told myself I wouldn't be one of those people, with an obnoxiously long profile. Then I went and practically started a damn blog on it. Well, shit. Maybe I'll have to start adding Author's Notes to the chapters. Bleh, that seems tedious, especially the extremely irritation document management procedure for chapter content. I wish it weren't verboten to just have a "story" as an author's blog.

Anyway, I wanted to address Harry's erstwhile companions, Ron and Hermione. I'm not terribly impressed with Ron, who, in canon, abandons Harry in bouts of jealousy (4th year) and lack of fortitude (7th year). He's gluttonous, lazy, and bigoted, and arguably holds Harry back. Ron was supposed to be the lovable idiot with a heart of gold, to represent the magical community as a whole, not a petty, entitled child (though that arguably also represents the magical community). Hermione, on the other hand, is a study in contradiction. Supposedly, she's very intelligent, yet she consistently fails to see how irresponsible Dumbledore, McGonagall, and virtually all of the other authority figures are, while simultaneously being blindly submissive to their will. Not what I would have expected from any muggleborn with any sense of history-she should have been the cutting wit, the worldly foil to Ron's sheltered obliviousness, rather than just a sycophantic puppy dog desperately trying to prove her place in her adopted community. Ironically, she is basically a bushy-haired, buck-toothed house-elf, serving her self-assigned master (Authority with a Capital A) with slavish devotion, to the detriment of anything that gets in the way. In HPatLS, Harry, in his bid for increased independence, will likely start to look at his associations and friendships more closely and honestly-he's spent three years confining himself to two friends, because they sat in the same train car as him when he was used to being ostracized. Now, though, he's about to see more of the world, and discover that he's got it in him to make new friends and allies on his own merits, rather than just being outcasts together (and make no mistake, the "trio" are outcasts when they meet, and that is why they bond-out of necessity, rather than out of any genuine common interest). END LOG.


	7. Breakfast in America

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

As soon as he finished calling out the portkey's activation phrase, Harry felt the signature "hook in the gut" jolting sensation, a wave of nausea, and then found himself sprawled out on a shiny tiled floor. An amused middle-aged couple helped him to his feet, and handed him Hedwig's cage.

"I know it's good to be here, but there's still no call for kissin' the tile," the man joked in a distinct Texan accent (even to Harry's relatively unpracticed ear, that drawl was unmistakable; not that it mattered, for the man's cowboy hat, bolo tie, and denim shirt would have been a dead giveaway in any case), chuckling genially. "At least wait until you can get at the actual ground outside."

"You all right there, son?" asked the woman kindly, after rolling her eyes at her husband. "That must have been your first international portkey. Go on up to that desk, and show them your passport. If you have any trouble, just ask me or my miscreant of a husband here."

The woman pointed to a large desk, above which hung a sign that stated:

**Philadelphia International Airport**

**International Portkey Arrival Terminal **

– **CUSTOMS –**

**All travelers must present passports and baggage for inspection**

"Thank you, ma'am," Harry said gratefully, blushing slightly. Despite his decidedly ungraceful entrance and Hedwig's annoyed glare, the trip was already looking up—less than ten seconds in America, and people were already helping him.

Harry walked over to the line in front of the desk, and waited a few moments before being waved over to the nearest available agent, a tall, shapely woman with dark skin and hair puffed out into a spherical afro. Remus and Sirius had made a stop before going to Number 4 to get Harry a passport using a cut-out of a photo he had taken of the "trio" at school—they had skipped the normal waiting period by simply confounding the bureaucrats and back-dating the application by several months. The baggage inspection took only a few seconds; the woman ran her wand over Harry's trunk and nodded, apparently satisfied. Harry only had to say how long he'd be in the country ("a couple of months, but in Philadelphia for just a few weeks"), and then briefly remove the glamour on Hedwig so that the agent could ensure that Hedwig was just a post owl, rather than something illegal or dangerous.

"Oh, thank God it's only an owl," she sighed upon seeing Hedwig's true form, clearly relieved. "You absolutely would not believe the creatures that people try to smuggle in. Last week some psycho tried to sneak in a cockatrice disguised as a poodle. Damn thing tried to bite my hand off. Anyway, is there anything else I can help with, kiddo?" the customs agent asked.

"Ah, yes actually," Harry replied. "Can you tell me the best way to get to City Hall? I'm looking to take the apparation license exam."

"Yeah, sure," she answered. "You can either go the non-magical way—that is, the regional rail, which departs from the airplane terminals every half hour, and costs about five or six bucks—or I can make you a portkey. It's free for destinations within the city, but some people don't feel up to another portkey so soon after an international one. Anyway, you might want to stop and check into a hotel first, to drop off your luggage. Most of them will give you an early check-in, if spare rooms are already prepared for arrivals. Since you'll only be in Philly for a few weeks, I'd recommend one of the inns, rather than one of the big, expensive hotels."

Harry considered it briefly. Stopping at an inn first was an excellent idea, and he would definitely do that; Remus and Sirius had already reserved a room for him at the decidedly non-magical Alexander Inn, which was located conveniently close to City Hall and the rest of Center City, while still being a little bit out of the way, to help him stay incognito. Transportation, however, was the real question. On the one hand, Hedwig wouldn't like it; on the other hand, even disguised as a parrot, she would draw attention. The Texan couple hadn't seemed to notice his scar, and the customs agent hadn't batted an eye when she read his name on his passport, but if he unnecessarily drew attention to himself, word might find its way back to Dumbledore. Caution won out; he simply wasn't willing to risk his whole trip by traveling in public more than he had to.

"I'll take the portkey, please," he said. "Can you set it for 12th and Market?"

This was a good option, he thought; he hadn't actually told the woman where he was staying, and that intersection was only three blocks from his destination, and, most importantly, was closer to several other hotels than the inn he had chosen. If she was questioned as to his whereabouts, someone would have to search several large hotels before getting to where he was staying, and hopefully he'd be gone by the time they fanned out that far.

She took out a short length of rope, tying one end to a bar on Hedwig's cage and the other to the handle of Harry's trunk.

"Make sure you've got a good grip on it," she instructed. "I make a lot of these, and it's a really short distance, so it should be pretty smooth. It'll put up a Notice-Me-Not charm for a few seconds when you land—enough so non-magicals won't wonder why you just popped into existence in Center City. Just say "Go Eagles!" when you're ready to go."

"Thanks, miss," Harry said, gripping the rope tightly and making sure it was securely attached to his trunk and Hedwig's cage. "Go Eagles!"

This time, the hooking sensation was much less intense, there was no nausea, and—most importantly—Harry didn't end up sprawled on the ground. He looked around briefly, impressed by the amount of hustle and bustle, then began his short walk south to the inn.

He arrived in short order, and was—since he had a reservation already—immediately shown to his room, where he divested himself of his luggage, opened up Hedwig's cage, and removed her glamour. She was still irritated at him about the portkeys and glamour, but not so irritated that she'd turn down a handful of owl treats, which quickly calmed her ire. Chuckling at her fickle but ultimately friendly nature, Harry left his room, hanging a "Do Not Disturb" sign and casting _colloportus_ at the door to be certain that Hedwig and his trunk would not be tampered with.

Harry left the inn to go take his apparation test, but more importantly (or at least more urgently), his previous brief walk had exposed him to the delicious smells emanating from the numerous food trucks parked alongside the street, which had made him immediately and keenly aware that he had not eaten since his small breakfast. He had left London just after 12 PM, and it was now almost exactly 7 AM in Philadelphia—due to the time difference of five hours, he would probably need four meals if he was to attempt to stay awake late enough to shift his internal clock over to Eastern Standard Time, and it was high time for meal number two.

He went to the nearest food truck. Not knowing what was good, and not really taking the time to read the menu posted on the side, he simply parroted the order of the man who went before him, asking for a "cheesesteak, with provolone, fried onions, salt, pepper, and ketchup." He didn't really know what a cheesesteak was, but vaguely recalled it being one of Philadelphia's signature foods, along with soft pretzels.

A few minutes later—he was surprised and impressed with how quickly the sandwich had been prepared—he completed the transaction, peeling off a few bills for the cashier. He pocketed the change, making a mental note to review the American currency after his meal, and dug in. Seconds later, he was doing a credible Ron Weasley impression, sitting on a bench and shoving food into his face. He could see why the locals seemed to like cheesesteaks so much, and got the feeling that he'd be having them pretty often in the next couple of weeks.

Satisfied after the large meal—looking at the price, he had expected a sandwich about half the size; he'd have to keep in mind that what he'd heard about American portion sizes was apparently true—he walked the short distance to City Hall. It was a nice building, with a statue of...well, someone...at the top. He walked in, following a tall, older man who he had noticed cleaning off his shoes with a subtle flick of his wand. As he had hoped, the man led him to a door that many of the passersby seemed not to notice.

Following the man through the door and down a set of stairs (he briefly wondered how this area didn't get in the way of the City Hall subway station, before assuming that the answer was simply "magic"), he found himself in a bustling office lobby with several halls extending out of the main area. The people within were obviously magical; some were levitating boxes of papers, others were sending memos flying through the air to other offices, and still others were simply too peculiar to be non-magical. Tearing his attention away from the people (as he didn't wish to be caught staring), he noticed a directory conveniently located beside the stairs, and he followed the simple directions down the hall to "Apparation Examination and Licensing."

After taking a number and standing in line for about ten minutes, during which time he filled out his apparation license application, he was called up to hand in his paperwork. A rather young wizard (Matt, Mark, Max, or something like that) met him at the front desk, and upon noticing that he had listed "England, United Kingdom" as his place of birth, began chatting amiably about a trip he had taken to London the previous summer. Harry realized that the man probably engaged in light conversation with all of his examinees to calm their nerves and help them pass the test, and—though it was unnecessary in his case—he appreciated the gesture. The man led Harry to what was clearly the exam room, a large open area with several differently-colored circles painted on the floor. He followed the Matt/Mark/Max's instructions to the letter, apparating from circle to circle, and in short order, the man praised his technique and stamped "PASSED" on his application.

"Good job, dude," Ma-something said. "Have a nice day!"

Harry politely returned the sentiment and went to the desk to collect his apparation license, which, though issued by the state of Pennsylvania, looked the same as those issued in England. Harry was surprised before remembering that the ICW policy was to issue licenses in the same format as those issued in an applicant's home country. Finished with his business at City Hall, Harry decided to take a "test drive" by apparating to his room at the inn.

Pleased that he had arrived where had intended with all of his parts still attached, Harry put in a quick mirror call to Remus and Sirius, showing them his new license and reassuring them about his safe trip.

"What are you going to do now, Harry?" Remus asked. "You've got almost two weeks to use Philadelphia as your home base, and portkeys to major cities and attractions around the country are fairly inexpensive."

"I think I'm going to spend a few days exploring Philly," Harry said. "There's a lot of good history here, and a few really great museums. Nights are probably going to be for summer assignments—I want to get them all done before I go to Wisconsin."

"Sounds like a good plan, lad," Sirius said. "It's a good idea to get your homework done early, especially since the animagus transformation and the magic you'll be learning will be pretty time-consuming and tiring. That said, make sure you leave enough time for fun. All work and no play makes for a dull Harry."

Harry grinned, and after saying goodbye, apparated to the sidewalk outside the inn. He paused briefly to consider the moment—he had crossed the ocean, his immediate food and shelter requirements were taken care of, and he was standing at the beginning of a long, exciting road. He squared his shoulders and stood up straight, before turning on his heel and setting off at a determined pace. It was time to start his adventure.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I've thrown in the Captain's Log entry from 5/20/2014 (the final Captain's Log entry, in fact; starting in Chapter 8, the Author's Notes were written directly into the chapter) below, and removed it from my profile page. This is to more accurately comply with, if not the letter, than the spirit of the rules and guidelines for posting stories.

So we're seven chapters in. Starting next chapter, I believe I will start adding my thoughts in as Author's Notes. Perhaps I'll retroactively shoehorn in the Captain's Log entries as well. Anyway, from here on out, I'm going to be slowing down a bit. The exposition is effectively over; the actual plot is starting up. Expect chapters of roughly 2000-3000 words. Writing has been interesting; I've got a general idea of the plot for the story, and honestly I've kind of been winging it for the details. I've been surprised at how quickly it is coming out (for example, Chapter 7 is about 2200 words, and it took almost exactly two hours from when I opened up a new document to when I uploaded it). I suppose that is a major factor in the relative ease of writing fan-fiction versus generating original content; it's much easier to put a spin on someone else's world than to build your own, especially when the world is as rich as the one J.K. Rowling created. Anyway, look out for the Author's Notes, coming soon to a chapter near you. END LOG.


	8. Philadelphia Freedom

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry was having by far the best summer of his life. He ate whatever and whenever he wanted to (there were no Dursleys starving him), he went to a baseball game, and he even chatted up a girl who was apparently visiting her older sister at one of the universities. For the first time, he felt like he was actually in control of his own life, and he loved every minute of it.

Even if he had a minder, he probably still would have genuinely enjoyed his time in the city; Philadelphia had a great deal to offer for the discerning traveler. He went to every major section of the city, in several cases going wherever his stomach led him (for example, to places like Reading Terminal Market). By June 30th, he had gone to several of the major museums in the city (though even he—an admitted philistine, compared to, say, Hermione—knew that it would take weeks to truly plumb the depths of just those he had seen, not to mention _all _of Philadelphia's numerous museums), and his favorite by far had been the Franklin Institute. In addition to its excellent non-magical exhibits, it had a substantial magical section, including departments which were actively engaged in research in a number of fascinating fields, doing justice to its namesake (a fairly famous American wizard).

In fact, these museums in general, and discussion he had had with a researcher (a middle-aged healer named Edward Hopkins, who had extolled the virtues of several different fields of magic, some not even available for study at Hogwarts) in particular had kindled in Harry a new enthusiasm for scholarship that bordered on obsession. It had helped Hopkins' credibility in Harry's mind that he had also recommended several different nutrient potions for Harry, having noticed instantly that Harry was underweight by nearly two stone. If nothing else, he could get back—within a few weeks—the growth he had missed out on from years of malnourishment and confinement at Number 4 Privet Drive. If he was particularly lucky, his eyesight—which had been damaged by a decade of straining his eyes to see in his dark cupboard—would also be repaired. Harry purchased the potions that day (not trusting his own skill at brewing for such an important application), and took them as directed. He was hopeful that he would return to Hogwarts taller, stronger, and without glasses, and he vowed to remember that, in all the times he had been under Madam Pomfrey's care at Hogwarts, she had never said _anything_ about repairing the physical damage that the Dursleys had inflicted on him. Since all potions prescribed by a healer in America had to be FDA-approved (though obviously in relative secrecy), he was quite sure that he trusted Hopkins's word over Pomfrey's; he was a world-renowned healer with dozens of published journal articles, and she was a school nurse.

Aside from medicinal potions, Harry's new academic fixation also led to a book-buying spree the likes of which Harry had not seen since the last time Hermione had visited Flourish and Blott's. Since American wizards apparently printed texts the same way as their muggle counterparts (rather than slow, labor-intensive 19th-century vintage presses), books were extremely inexpensive, and unlike the tripe available in Britain (often forced upon students by professors looking to line their own pockets—unfortunately, Lockhart wasn't the only offender, just the worst), textbooks were all peer-reviewed. Histories were full of verified fact, and when authors speculated or theorized, they were careful to hedge, knowing that their reputations were on the line. Spellbooks included not only descriptions, helpful tips, and suggested uses, but also arithmantic formulae, all manner of graphs and data, and moving pictures of wand motions. Harry bought so many books that he ended up going to the local Gringotts branch to withdraw more funds just to buy more books, and needed to charm his trunk several times with as powerful of a space-expanding charm as he could manage.

He was being well-served by all these books; far from being solely for enjoyment, Harry was using them in addition to—and in some cases, in lieu of—his assigned textbooks as references for his summer assignments. As a result, he was plowing through his homework with little difficulty, and at a pace that Hermione would have envied. He had quickly concluded that he would be dropping divination, and replacing it with arithmancy. Professor Vector was known for being an excellent teacher, and he could simply test out of the third-year introductory material to be placed with the other fourth-year students. Ancient runes was also a consideration, but it was primarily memorization through the OWL material, so he would simply self-study it, and sit the OWL at his own leisure. If that went well, he would take the runes course at the NEWT level.

As these resolutions came to him, he began to wonder why he had let Ron talk him into taking divination. What a waste of time that had been! Had he really been so starved for companionship that he was willing to let Ron dictate the course of his life? The answer after his second year had apparently been "yes," but now that was no longer the case. Harry would take the courses he wanted, and if he felt like doing extra work or reading instead of playing chess or talk about quidditch (which he probably would, now that he had purchased a great deal of reading material that would actually be well worth his time), then he would do just that.

During the mirror call before dinner (the time difference was currently six hours, as Sirius and Remus were currently in Germany, following up on a lead on Wormtail), Harry ran these thoughts by the two older wizards.

"I'm glad you're starting to place more value on what you want, Harry," Sirius said, nodding with satisfaction. "Friendship is important, but you need to live your own life the way _you _want."

"I agree," Remus said, poking his head into view. "I didn't want to get into it with you during school, since Ron and Hermione are fairly close friends of yours and I didn't want to offend you, but I think you might have less in common with them than you did at the beginning of your first year. That's okay; part of growing up is growing into your own person, and sometimes that means growing apart from people you were close to."

Harry sighed. "I guess. It's just kind of surprising—maybe it's because I've been keeping myself so busy between exploring the city and doing my summer assignments, but I haven't really missed Ron and Hermione since you guys picked me up from Number 4, and I only really think of them when I do schoolwork, go to a museum, or see someone eat like a pig."

Sirius didn't quite get Harry's half-joke, but Remus laughed. "Ah, Ron Weasley. It was pretty unappetizing watching from up at the staff table; I shudder to think how bad it is up close and personal."

"Anyway, Harry, it's great that you're looking into history and different fields of magic," Sirius continued, still—shockingly—on the subject of learning. "You never know what is going to be useful, and the more you learn, the broader your horizons will be."

Harry was surprised by Sirius's sudden ability to be sedate and responsible for the entire conversation so far; that is, until the very next moment, when his thin veneer of respectability came crashing down.

"So, have you snogged any colonial girls?"

Rolled eyes met his barking laughter, and the rest of the conversation was spent bantering and chatting about lighter subjects.

After a hearty dinner (consisting, predictably, of a cheesesteak smothered in ketchup), Harry put the finishing touches on his final summer assignment, thinking—quite rightly, as it would turn out—that Professor Flitwick would definitely be impressed with his work. Harry spent the remainder of the night reading _On Combating the Darker Forces of this Earth __and Beyond__, _an incredibly interesting Defense Against the Dark Arts book, originally written almost two centuries ago by "I. Crane" and periodically edited by his descendants (whose family business was the hunting and destruction of dark creatures). As he turned out the lights and settled in for bed, he turned to Hedwig and grinned.

"It doesn't get much better than this."

* * *

**Author's Note**

So, this is my first actual Author's Note—at some point, I'll probably go back and dump the Captain's Log entries from my profile into A/N's at the end of their appropriate chapters. I wish there was some better way to do this, so that it doesn't throw off the word count, but alas, it is not to be.

The "fairly famous American wizard" mentioned early in this chapter will come up again. He's one of my favorite historical characters, so I figured I may as well make him a wizard. That would explain at least some of his shenanigans.

Strangely enough, the most difficult part of the writing process (so far, at least) has been keeping track of dates and lunar cycles, which are important for both plot and character reasons. For the first several chapters, it was always clear precisely when events were taking place; soon, however, expect to see some Rowling-style timeskips ("as days went on," "things continued in this fashion for the next week," etc.), which both the books and—even more obviously—the movies used to great effect.

Anyway, I've made my decision regarding the "familiar" cliché for this story. The fact is, there is no support for the idea of a "familiar" as some sort of magically-bonded animal companion in canon; rather, the introduction of familiars to Potter-'verse fanon and fanfiction seems to me to be an example of diffusion from other universes and mythologies.

The closest examples to this idea of a "familiar bond" from canon are Albus/Fawkes, Salazar/basilisk, and Tom/Nagini. The Albus/Fawkes relationship is mostly unexplained, but nothing the phoenix entry in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ indicates that phoenixes (and, by extension, Fawkes) are anything more than particularly rare and difficult to domesticate magical animals. Basically, phoenixes are basically just post owls that have healing tears, an uplifting song, great physical strength, and a flashier version of apparation. The Salazar/basilisk relationship is simple; the nature of a basilisk is that it A: is a snake, and B: is not naturally-occurring. Therefore, Salazar (or someone) intentionally hatched a chicken egg beneath a toad (per _HPatCoS_), and the ability to use Parseltongue afforded him magical command over the beast. Finally, the Tom/Nagini relationship is actually the closest thing in canon to the traditional "familiar" bond—they are literally connected via a chunk of Tom's soul.

Since there won't be horcruxes in this story, I'll be moving forward under the assumption that pets are pretty much just pets, albeit if semi-sentient ones. I mean, Hagrid purchased Hedwig at a literal pet shop. If any wizard has extra control over his pet, it's because his pet is well-trained and/or there is literally a way for them to communicate (such as Parseltongue) and/or some form of mind-control or compulsion charm is involved. Thus, Fawkes is Albus's very well-trained bird, Hedwig is Harry's rather well-trained (if somewhat vain) bird, and Nagini is Tom's (probably mind-controlled) snake.

So, as for how this will all play out in _HPatLS_...I guess you'll have to wait and see.

Finally...review! Constructive criticism and ego-stroking are both welcome!


	9. The Devil is in the Details

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The next day, July 1st, was a Friday. Many of Philadelphia's residents had taken the day off to start their weekend by going "down the shore" (Philly-speak for driving eastward to the beaches in New Jersey). Harry was going to visit one last museum in the morning, before embarking on his first side trip. He had picked up some camping equipment at a military surplus store the previous day, and planned to go on a one- or two-day trip to the highly-magical Pine Barrens of New Jersey. The large (covering over a fifth of New Jersey's land area), densely-forested reserve was actually quite close to Philadelphia and Camden; however, it was largely unpopulated by humans. Based on a conversation Harry had partially overheard between two wizards in one of the bookstores he had plundered, it seemed to be a fairly tame, albeit exponentially larger, version of the Forbidden Forest, though by some quirk of the area's ambient magic, it was apparently not possible to apparate or portkey within the forest; that was little more than a minor inconvenience, though; he'd simply apparate nearby, and go in on foot (flying his Firebolt wouldn't work, because the canopy would be so dense that he would have difficulty landing anywhere). His goal was to see the famous "Blue Hole," a supposedly-bottomless lake which was said to be a favored site for some magical creature; Harry hadn't heard what creature it was, as a large family—very like the Weasleys, in fact, except their hair was uniformly brown—bustled in between Harry and the two men on whom he had been eavesdropping.

As he ate breakfast—a scrapple sandwich, which was delicious, so he didn't want to risk asking anyone precisely what scrapple actually was—while walking (as he felt he had been apparating too much, and was risking getting out of shape) to his destination, Harry's exotic (for him) meal turned his thoughts toward Ron, who would certainly enjoy trying all the different cuisines easily available; as good a cook as Molly Weasley was, she generally cooked a small range of typical English fare. Thinking about Ron quickly led to thinking about Hermione, who would be insanely jealous of his opportunity to visit so many museums and bookstores (and practice magic out of school). Of course, thinking of his two closest companions inevitably led his thoughts to Hogwarts.

Based on the booklists for the various American magical schools Harry had found posted at several large bookstores, Harry was beginning to remember the differences between muggle schooling (as American magical education closely mirrored that of their non-magical counterparts, even including some non-magical subjects to meet state and federal requirements) and the almost obsolete model used in magical Britain, and the former seemed to be coming out on top at almost every turn. And to think that Hogwarts billed itself as the "best magical education in the world!" Snape could certainly not turn out any great number of qualified potions students, Binns could never hope to turn out any graduates qualified to speak on magical history, and Defense Against the Dark Arts was practically a joke—so far, Harry had had only one reasonably qualified DADA professor, and he was forced to resign once news of his lycanthropy had spread, thanks to Snape's pettiness. In an American classroom, Snape would have been fired mere seconds into his first class (for that was how long it usually took for him to begin abusing the children under his care), Binns would never even pass an interview (since he pretty much ran on autopilot), and Remus's employment would have been protected—not persecuted—by equal opportunity and disability protection laws.

Harry knew that he couldn't base his entire view of an entire nation on his experience of a few days in one city, but he was quickly becoming impressed with America, and equally disillusioned with the British magical community in general, and Albus Dumbledore in particular. This feeling was fueled greatly by the mentions of Dumbledore in various exhibits at the Philadelphia Museum of International Magical History (he was, after all, a very prominent figure in European magical communities and the ICW), almost none of which painted him in a flattering light. The man was positioned perfectly to drag the British magical community into the new millennium: he was Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the British representative to the ICW, and—perhaps most importantly—had been headmaster of the largest school of magic in western Europe for several decades, which he could have used to mold the minds of his young charges toward embracing change and improving their world.

If Dumbledore was truly as progressive as he encouraged people to believe, Harry thought, then British magical society would not still be stuck in the Victorian era. Instead, his moves—on the rare occasion that he made any—in the Wizengamot and as headmaster of Hogwarts had always been calculated to maintain the status quo, while every once in a while using some of his influence to help one of his minions out of a tight spot. Even his duel against Grindelwald in 1945 (for which he was venerated in Britain) had only come once the war had already been won on the muggle side, and was effectively over on the magical front, after ignoring a steady stream of ambassadors and heads of state literally begging for his help for the better part of a decade.

In short, Dumbledore was basically a wizard version of Hamlet—his default response was always to wait and consider the different paths, paralyzed by uncertainty, and by the time he made any decision, it was almost always too late to do any real good. Harry realized that this must be so that he would be able to do just enough to claim the moral high ground for taking action, but would never make any decision where he could be held responsible if the situation didn't turn out as planned. This extended even to what was arguably the boldest thing Dumbledore ever did—if he had lost the duel to his old friend Gellert (as only in Britain was Dumbledore able to keep his boyhood association and affair with Grindelwald censored from the public eye), he almost certainly would have survived (Gellert still probably would have been captured, as his war was lost and he was far outnumbered), while the fact of his loss would have been justification for waiting so long, and he still would have been viewed as brave just for trying. Either way, he would have come out on top (or at least with his reputation intact), so really, it hadn't been bold at all, since there was virtually no risk.

As he thought about some of what he had read about Dumbledore's standing policy of inaction, a thought struck him. Dumbledore had stepped up during the Death Eater trials after the war exactly once, and it had been to save Severus Snape's hide. Despite Snape being a marked Death Eater, Dumbledore had ensured that he was acquitted—apparently, the political cost was to make no push for veritaserum against any captured Death Eaters, allowing many to go free (those who could afford to buy off their fellow Wizengamot members, that is). Somehow, Sirius hadn't quite made the cut for Dumbledore's intervention, even though he was known as a member of the not-so-secret vigilante organization led by Dumbledore himself. Probably since public opinion had already been against Sirius, Harry thought bitterly, so it would have been too risky to stick his neck out for Sirius—no matter that it had literally been Dumbledore's sworn duty as Chief Warlock to ensure that _everyone _(even, or perhaps _especially_ suspected traitors and mass murderers) was given a fair trial. Knowing these details, Harry was certain that he would never forgive Dumbledore for failing Sirius—and, by extension, Harry himself—so completely. The more details he found out about Dumbledore, the more Harry began to feel that, if it hadn't been for the obviously evil (and, in many cases, Death-Eating) nature of many members of the so-called "dark" political faction, he might have aligned with them just for the sake of removing Dumbledore.

These overwhelmingly negative sentiments about magical Britain and Dumbledore led him, quite appropriately, to the final museum he planned to visit: Independence Hall (practically hallowed ground to Americans and historians, as both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution had been debated and signed there) at 5th and Chestnut. As Independence Day approached (it was observed every 4th of July), Independence Hall and several other places associated with the American Revolution—which had largely centered around Philadelphia, due to the city functioning as the capitol of the fledgling nation—always saw drastically increased attendance; this year was apparently no different, as quite a few people were wandering about. He perused some of the writings on display, impressed with the eloquence and passion of the speeches and essays. It was easy to see, given the circumstances, how such words had incited such a dramatic uprising. Of course he could identify with the rebels, Harry thought, chuckling; after all, he was currently several timezones away from Number 4 Privet Drive, undertaking his own private rebellion.

As he turned to leave the building, Harry's eyes alighted on an exhibit which displayed the progression of flags, ensigns, and jacks associated with the United States throughout history. Most were just variations on the well-known "stars and stripes" theme, but some were very different. The one that caught his eye was among the first; it depicted the words "Don't Tread on Me" emblazoned beneath a rattlesnake on a yellow field. Harry read the brief description; apparently it was called the "Gadsden flag," after the designer, who was a general and a delegate to the Continental Congress. He had seen several examples of the rattlesnake being used as a symbol of early American independence in several museums, including the Franklin Institute and the Philadelphia Art Museum; that had originally surprised him, as the European magical communities—and the British in particular—almost universally associated snakes with so-called "dark" magic. It must be just another way the US was different, he supposed, resolving to find out the details of why the rattlesnake had been so prominent of a symbol. Putting it out of his mind for the time being, he apparated off to the food trucks near City Hall. After all, there was a food truck nearby that served heavenly-smelling falafel sandwiches, and that was, at least for now, much more intriguing to the rapidly-growing (courtesy of his nutrient potions) teenager.

After wolfing down his falafel sandwich (who knew that fried chickpeas could be so delicious?!), Harry apparated back to the inn to prepare for his trip to the Pine Barrens. He gave his kit a quick once-over: an expansion-charmed canteen (which he could refill with _a__g__uamenti_ if he ran out of water), several electric camping lights, a tent, his boots, an old U.S. Army rucksack, a sleeping bag, an extendable shovel, both of his wands, several daggers of varying sizes (which Sirius had made him bring from the Black family armory), several "to go" boxed meals under preservation charms, and his Firebolt. He also packed a small potions and antidote kit, which included two bezoars—he doubted he'd need them, but he wasn't very familiar with American flora, so he figured it was better to have and not need than to need and not have. Finally, he threw a spare pair of jeans, several spare sets of socks and boxer briefs, his light jacket, and a few spare tee-shirts into his rucksack, and decided that he was as ready as he was going to be.

Harry figured that a short side trip into the uninhabited forest would also be an excellent chance to try out some of the more...high-impact...magic that he had been reading about in the spellbooks he had bought, having taken a break from his study of Crane's book on dark creatures in order to skim over _Offensive Magic for Defensive Mages_, by Henry Earp (a magical descendant of the illustrious muggle lawman Wyatt Earp). Ironically, if his new academic determination had driven him to delve just one chapter deeper into the Crane text—or if he had overheard the entirety of that conversation about the details of the Pine Barrens—he almost certainly would have chosen a different destination..._any other_ destination.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I was glad to see my wizardifying of Ben Franklin and Ichabod Crane got a few grins; I even got a chuckle out of tchizek's idea about Johnny Appleseed and Paul Bunyan (though I'll leave it to him to develop those ideas into a story if he so chooses—I've gotta say, that idea definitely has some potential, especially if you throw in a wizard Davy Crockett). I think I'll enjoy the opportunity to give the occasional nod to history and folklore, and there is a fair amount to draw from; Crane (of Washington Irving's _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_) was simply the most widely recognizable character in American folklore that popped into my head while writing. Plus, I'll need to pick out names for auxiliary and background characters somehow.

And going into a possibly-dangerous situation based on information gained from a partially-overheard conversation...sound familiar? Perhaps Harry has a bit more in common with 'ole Tom than he thought.

Since the title "Supreme Mugwump of the ICW" was never explained in canon, I decided that it would simply be the title claimed by the United Kingdom's ICW representative. For comparison, the American representative, appointed by the Secretary of State, would claim the title "Ambassador." Most fanfiction writers simply assume it means that he is the leader of the ICW (equivalent to the Secretary-General of the UN), but that does not make sense, as Fudge was able to strip this position from him in _HPatOo__t__P_. If he were just the representative, it would effectively mean that he held a Ministry-appointed (and thus Ministry-fireable) ambassadorial billet, whereas if he was the Secretary-General equivalent, it would mean he was employed directly by the ICW (and thus the British Ministry would have no say over his employment there). Plus, it sounds just like the whimsical self-aggrandizing bullshit that the Ministry would make up for the title of their official ICW ambassador—they seem to try their hardest to make everything "official" sound ridiculous (I mean, Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests? _Really?_), and I don't see why their participation in international politics would be any different. I had considered referring to "Supreme Mugwump" as a ceremonial role given to the senior member of the body, but that would require making up some ceremonial duties for him to preside over, and I didn't want to get too far away from Harry's ruminations. Much simpler to just make it refer to the British representative's position, and then proceed to ignore it.

Observation: I have noticed a tendency in my writing to layer multiple explanatory asides within the same sentence, via a combination of dashes, commas, parentheses, and simply stacking on dependent clauses. Is this having any deleterious effect on the readability of my writing? If you review, let me know how you feel about this; should I make an effort to tone it down? Does it give readers the impression that I am letting my sentences get away from me?


	10. Into the Woods

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry arrived at the edge of a the Pine Barrens just after 12 PM. Giving himself one last pat-down to ensure he had everything, he pulled out his map booklet (which helpfully included the known trails), and set off confidently toward the trail which would lead him (eventually) to the Blue Hole. That confidence received a stiff blow almost immediately, though, as Harry stepped into the forest. He felt a brief tingling sensation, and realized that it must be the effect of whatever it was about the Pine Barrens which made it impossible to apparate or portkey in or out. He quickly confirmed this theory by attempting—and failing—to apparate both outside of and deeper into the woods.

"So much for the emergency portkey," Harry muttered.

This thought gave him significant pause. He had informed Remus and Sirius of his idea for the trip, and they had approved; however, he had not found out that portkeying and apparating would be impossible until after his conversation with his two quasi-guardians. It was entirely possible that they would not have approved, if they had been aware that his emergency portkey would not be of any use within the forest. Even _he_ was suddenly uncertain if this was a good plan.

"I've escaped giant spiders in the Forbidden Forest, killed a basilisk with a sword, and dueled to the death an adult wizard possessed by Voldemort," Harry reasoned aloud. "I'm sure I can handle a little camping trip in the woods." Confidence restored, Harry lit his wand with a murmured _lumos_ (as the light within the forest was dim, even at noon), and strode onward. He did notice, however, that the wandlight—though as bright as ever at his wandpoint—didn't seem to carry as far as it normally would. Harry chalked it up to being an effect of the substantial levels of ambient magic present throughout the Barrens; he theorized that it was likely that all spells would respond slightly unpredictably.

Harry followed the trail, ducking through vines and stepping over fallen trees, for nearly three hours before stopping to rest. He sat for several minutes, sipping from his canteen and generally catching his breath, and then pulled out his map. After a glance, he sat up in surprise—the trail he was on, and which he had never left, had been significantly different from what was shown on the map. However, the trail _ahead_ (at least the part that was in sight) seemed to match, curving in precisely the manner depicted. Could he be on the wrong trail, and this curve was just a coincidence? He decided to keep moving, and if the turns kept matching, he would assume he was on the right path, and if not, he would go back the way he came. That way, he'd be able to make it out before sundown.

He moved on with a new sense of urgency—if it turned out that he was on the wrong trail, he wanted to know quickly, to begin his egress as soon as possible. However, these fears were soon calmed; the trail was clearly the same as was indicated on the map. Every time he looked back, though, the path seemed unfamiliar. Perhaps that was another odd effect of the magic which permeated the forest so deeply. Harry was briefly concerned about how he would get back, but a quick look at the map reassured him that there were several trails leading out of the forest from the Blue Hole—even if a path was only viable once, he didn't have to take the same path back out again. If all else failed, he always had his Firebolt.

Around 7 PM, the sun began to fall below the treeline, and Harry knew it was time to make camp for the night. Conveniently, he almost immediately found a likely-looking clearing off to the side of the path, and, with several flicks of his wand and a carefully-controlled _incendio_, he soon had his tent erected and a roaring campfire burning. He completed his campsite with, a Notice-Me-Not charm, a general aversion and repulsion charm, and a caterwauling charm. This way, no animals would notice his campsite, and if they came too close, they would be compelled to move away; even if they made it through, the caterwauling charm would help to scare them off and alert Harry.

Pleased with his preparations, he cast a _finite_ on one of his boxed meals and sat down to eat. A hefty portion of fried chicken and biscuits (the kind served in the southern states, rather than dessert biscuits, which Americans referred to as "cookies") later, Harry looked at his progress on the map. It seemed that he was nearly to the Blue Hole; he would probably make it there before lunch tomorrow, and if all went well, he would be able to reach the edge of the Pine Barrens before nightfall. He put away the map, and took out his mirror, intending to update the Marauders; just before activating it, he realized that it would be well after midnight for them, and that they probably wouldn't appreciate being roused from much-needed rest just to hear that Harry was in the woods.

Instead, he opened up Henry Earp's spellbook, and whiled away the rest of the evening practicing different dueling spells. When he took a break from his casting to take a drink, he looked at his watch, and was surprised to note that it was nearly 11 PM. He decided to call it a night, doused the campfire, and went to bed, falling asleep as soon as he slid into his sleeping bag.

* * *

He did not get to rest for very long. At precisely midnight, a horrible screeching scream—like the deep reverberations from tearing through corrugated cardboard, crossed with the sharp, shrill shriek of fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard, as though the very air itself was being ripped apart—in the distance shocked Harry out of his slumber. Wand out, his eyes—wide with surprise and fear—shot from side to side, trying to discern the direction from which the terrifying cry had come.

Deep, empty silence settled upon the forest when the scream faded away. With a start, Harry suddenly realized that this was no different from before—now that he noticed the silence, it occurred to him that he could not recall hearing or seeing any animals, magical or otherwise, since he had entered the Pine Barrens. How could he not have noticed it? No birds chirped, no insects buzzed, no squirrels or woodchucks chattered...at this realization, Harry was starkly aware that something about this forest was _wrong_, and he should have detected it the second he had set foot in this place. A profound sense of unease sunk into Harry's very bones. He would get no rest this night; of that he was certain.

As if agreeing with his thought, another, louder scream echoed through the woods. This time, a low rumbling roar—much like that of a lion—was layered under the other notes. It seemed to be further away, but as a precaution, Harry silently pulled on his socks and boots, and carefully zipped up his rucksack. He sat with his legs crossed beneath his body, ready to leap up, with his rucksack's straps pulled tight across his chest. His wand in his right hand and his broom in his left, Harry waited, feeling like a submariner waiting out depth charges. The tension was almost unbearable as the minutes dragged on.

A quarter of an hour later, the scream pierced the forest again, this time from much closer. It couldn't be more than a few dozen meters away, Harry thought, gripping his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white, in sharp contrast to the dark ebony of his wand's wood. Then, his fear turned to terror, as he heard the sound of the bushes and saplings that lined the clearing being pushed aside, with fallen leaves and twigs crunching beneath the feet of something large and inevitably terrible. If it was within the clearing, then the creature had already passed through the aversion and repulsion charm. What if it was unaffected by the Notice-Me-Not charm? Even worse, what if it was powerful enough to brush aside his charms entirely?

His caterwauling charm, set inside the Notice-Me-Not charm's perimeter, provided an answer when it was activated. As the klaxon sounded, Harry realized that the beast had defeated Harry's Notice-Me-Not charm, and his decision was made.

"_Reducto!"_ Harry bellowed, blasting the tent apart. In the brief flash of light from his spell, Harry caught his first glimpse of the beast, and could not contain his scream of horror as his feet froze in place, refusing to obey his mind's command to run, run, move, _run_.

The creature was truly monstrous. Its form was blurred, as though Harry's mind could not quite conceptualize what his eyes were reporting, but enough detail was perceptible that Harry instantly understood that it could not possibly exist naturally on this earth. It stood at least eight feet tall upon powerful reverse-kneed legs ending in cloven hooves. Its forelimbs were disproportionately small, but were still much longer and thicker than Harry's arms, and its hands had three fingers tipped with long, wickedly-curved talons. It held its large, leathery wings against its back, and its head was that of a ram, with heavy curled horns. The eyes, though, were by far the worst. They glowed red like hot coals, but held no warmth, instead promising nothing but pain and death.

Its eyes flashed in the darkness, and it screamed again in literally incandescent rage as Harry turned and began to sprint away. He didn't know when he had began to run, and he wasn't certain when he had lit his wand, but he quickly became certain that the now-oppressive weight of the ambient magic of the Pine Barrens had rendered his Firebolt inert, falling in a tangle of limbs and broomstick. He scrambled back to his feet and continued running, shrinking and stowing his Firebolt as he tore down the path, all of his previous weariness buried beneath a veritable sea of adrenaline.

After a few minutes of running, he realized that he might actually have the advantage. The path was narrow and winding, and the massive demon—for it could surely be nothing else—was too large to move easily through it, but not quite large enough to be able to plow through the trees. This hope was, of course, immediately dashed, as Harry heard another scream, this time from..._above him!_

Reflexes forged by a decade of dodging blows from Dudley and his gang, and honed to a razor edge by three years of dodging Bludgers in Quidditch snapped into action, hurling Harry down onto his left side. The beast had, at some point during the chase, found enough room to spread its vast bat-like wings, and had crashed through the canopy to swoop down at Harry. He had barely dodged out of the way in time, and while the monster was picking itself up off the ground (having committed fully to the dive, it had plowed into the underbrush), Harry cast as powerful a cutting curse as he could muster at the beast's fallen form, striking one of its wings, and resumed his mad dash down the path as the demon roared in pain and fury.

Harry continued running, never slowing his pace; his almost all-consuming fear was giving him all the stamina he needed. He stopped, stepped off the trail, and crouched down, trying to listen for the demon while he sipped from his canteen. After a tense minute of absolute silence, he heard the telltale sound of movement, and realized that the creature, having failed at a direct chase, was now stalking him. Harry got up and began moving again, casting a caterwauling charm on the trail—this way, he'd know how far behind him the creature was. He did this several more times, and had gone about a hundred meters, before he heard the demon set off the first one.

Continuing on, Harry soon came across a large clearing, dominated by a mostly-circular lake approximately thirty meters wide. He could see the water's deep blue hue even in the darkness, despite the forest's limiting effect on his wandlight. He shrugged; the beast had not set off the second caterwauling charm yet, so he had a bit of time—why not at least get a bit of what he came for? Harry withdrew a glass jar, which he had charmed ahead of time for this precise purpose, and dunked it into the Blue Hole's water. The unbreakable jar filled quickly despite the space-expansion charm laid into it; thankfully, Harry had also layered on a featherweight charm (or else the volume of water, which was somewhere on the order of six hundred liters, would have made the jar impossible for him to carry), and Harry closed the lid and put the jar back into his sack.

As he withdrew the map to determine which alternate trail would lead him out of the forest, he heard the second caterwauling charm erupt. Harry quickly chose his route and set off at a brisk walk, knowing that the demon was now trying to tire him out rather than chase him down; that crash or his cutting curse must have done enough damage that it couldn't take to the air, or else the demon would already have been upon him again. Having concluded that it was tracking him by scent or some magical method, he realized that he had no hope of evading the demon indefinitely. He would either have to escape back to civilization—which would require leaving the Barrens—or kill the beast. Knowing that he was at least several hours from the edge of the forest (especially since he had actually been running deeper into it, towards the Blue Hole, and was only now turning outward), he reluctantly reasoned that it was likely that he would end up having to fight the demon to the death.

He considered the demon itself, and realized that it reminded him somewhat of a dementor. Despite the fact that it had virtually nothing _physically_ in common with that other foul creature, it also exuded an aura that had affected Harry acutely when it was close by. While dementors ooze a sense of despair and sadness, this demon brought with it a distinct air of fear and wrongness. Maybe they were related, he thought, hope blooming in his chest for the first time since midnight. Harry knew that lethifolds were distant relatives of dementors, and they were just as affected by the patronus charm as dementors were. Perhaps it would also work on this creature?

However, it seemed somewhat more...solid, than a dementor. While a patronus was sufficient to chase off a dementor for quite some time, it might not be enough to stop this monster.

"I don't need the patronus to stop it entirely," he mused aloud. "If the patronus distracts it, maybe I can kill it some other way."

Most wizards would immediately turn to their thoughts to their wand. Harry, however, had killed two opponents without his wand while still a child, instead using his bare (albeit sacrifice-based blood-protection imbued) hands to kill Quirrell and a sword to kill a massive basilisk. So, taking a quick inventory of his equipment, he found that he still possessed the daggers that Sirius had made him take from the Black family armory. If it was too hurt to fly, he reasoned, perhaps that meant that it could bleed. And if it could bleed, that meant it had a heart.

Setting his jaw grimly, Harry drew the longest of the daggers, the runes engraved into the blade glinting dangerously in the dim light.

"This should do the job," Harry concluded, picturing where the creature's heart must be. "This should definitely do the job."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Cliffhanger! It's late tonight, and I've had a long day; expect the conclusion—for good or ill—of Harry's side trip tomorrow by late morning or early afternoon.


	11. One for the History Books

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry sat back, frowning. There were other preparations he would have liked to make—though he would have preferred not to have to make them in the first place—but the demon had just set off the nearest caterwauling charm, and Harry was out of time. What he had would simply have to be enough.

Harry's ambush was set up just after a narrow blind corner in the trail, surrounded by large boulders (likely migrated somehow from the nearby Appalachian mountains) covered in some sort of moss. The trail, though, was still simple dirt, and so Harry had blasted a pit into the ground, about five feet deep. He had used cutting hexes to trim about a dozen branches into sharpened stakes, and lined the bottom of the pit with them. The pit was covered by a large dirt-covered steel plate (which he had transfigured from a leaf), onto which he had kicked enough dirt to conceal its presence.

Hearing the beast just around the corner, Harry stepped off the path, and waited, not daring even to breathe, as the demon stepped into the dim moonlight. He barely managed to stifle his gasp of horror at what he saw. The demon's eyes were ablaze with fury and hatred, and he felt its malevolent gaze burn into his own fearfully-widened eyes.

The demon moved forward slowly and deliberately, shaking the ground with each step. Then, with a pair of ringing clangs, the huge hooves hit the steel plate. This was the moment Harry had been waiting for.

"_Finite," _Harry whispered, pointing his wand at the steel plate, which promptly turned back into a small leaf. However, the beast had already moved past the plate-covered pit—Harry had missed his chance! Time for plan B.

Harry stood defiantly before the huge demon and pointed his ebony wand directly between the beast's fiery eyes, enduring its scream of impending triumph. Dredging up every good memory he had, thinking back to Sirius and Remus and the feelings they brought, of home, happiness, family, _love..._

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_ Harry bellowed. His wand arm bucked with recoil, as though he had just fired a shotgun one-handed, and a massive, glowing silver stag slammed into the demon's chest, expending all of its energy in a flash of silver and a concussion that shook leaves from the trees.

The creature let out a "whuff" of surprise as it was pushed backwards, and then it tumbled into the now-open pit, impaling itself on the sharpened stakes. Its piercing shriek of pain and rage, though, let Harry know that it was not quite finished. Looking down at the beast, he could see that its arms, legs, and wings were impaled by the stakes; however, having such a long and flexible neck, it would still be able to bite him with its fangs (Harry didn't bother to stop and wonder why a ram-headed creature had fangs; _of course_ it had fangs, because it just wouldn't be horrible enough without them).

"_Incarcerous,"_ Harry incanted, watching as the monster was completely immobilized—and, thankfully, gagged—by thick ropes. Just to be certain that it could not rip through the ropes, he also cast a quick _petrificus totalis_ before vanishing the stakes. Harry lowered himself into the pit with another conjured rope tied around a tree, holstered his wand and drew the long, cold iron dagger. He looked the brute in the eyes, which still glowed, promising vengeance, before slamming the blade into the demon's chest. Seconds later, the beast's eyes faded to featureless black orbs, and Harry knew that it was finally dead.

"Huh," he said aloud. "Now what?" Usually his misadventures ended with him waking up at the hospital wing, with Madam Pomfrey force-feeding him potions. Now, though, he still had to make his way out of the woods before he could apparate back to the inn. It almost felt anticlimactic, he thought—though perhaps that was the hallmark of a successful ambush. No long, drawn-out battle, just a few cheap shots and a dead monster. Frowning at the thought, he transfigured the dead demon into a large bone (deciding that perhaps the researchers at the Franklin Institute might want to study it), and cast a _scourgify_ to clean the black, syrupy blood off of the dagger and his hands.

"Might as well get going," he muttered, and set off down the trail. Five extremely uneventful hours later, the sun rose upon a dirty, sweaty, exhausted Harry Potter stumbling out of the woods, feeling suddenly lighter as the oppressive weight of the forest's magic lifted off of him. Without a second thought, save for an overwhelming senses of relief, he apparated back to his room at the inn, and didn't even make it to the bed before pitching over and passing out.

* * *

"Ow!" Harry yelped, rubbing the back of his head. "What the hell, Hedwig?"

His owl looked at him sternly, then raised a wing to point roughly at the alarm clock, which showed 9 AM, July 3rd. He had slept for more than an entire day.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm up," he muttered, dragging himself to his feet and staggering to the shower. He emerged at just about 10 AM, finally feeling clean now that he had scrubbed every bit of his skin several times.

Harry considered for a moment the events of the weekend, and decided to write to Healer Hopkins for advice on who—if anyone—at the Franklin Institute might be interested in hearing about his encounter with a monster in the Pine Barrens. "Hedwig, I'll have a letter for you as soon as I'm done eating everything I can get my hands on," he said, not really exaggerating; he was unbelievably hungry, as he had not eaten for over 36 hours, and had spend a not insignificant portion of that time running from and battling an unholy abomination.

* * *

Edward Hopkins was an accomplished man, and one of the most well-known of the researchers at the Franklin Institute. Like many in his family, he had an eye toward improving life, and therefore had focused much of his research on the healing arts, even taking the time to receive a medical degree from the prestigious university that bore his famous ancestor's name. Therefore, it was no surprise that he received a great deal of correspondence from colleagues and researchers around the globe, and, after decades of consulting on a wide variety of cases, considered himself somewhat desensitized to shock. He was taken aback, though, by the content of a short missive from a child he vaguely recalled meeting the previous week; so much so that he interrupted his lunch and fire-called perhaps the one researcher at the Institute more well-known, and with a more famous family name, than himself. Moments later, a tall, powerfully-built man with a square jaw, black hair, and gray eyes stepped through the fire into Edward's home.

"Good afternoon, Jacob," Edward said, shaking the man's hand. Jacob Crane was, like his great-great-grandfather Ichabod, a monster-hunter, and his experience had already added several chapters to the next edition of _On Combating the Darker Forces of this Earth __and Beyond. _He was considered an expert in all matters related to dark creatures and magical combat, and had been extremely interested in what Edward had mentioned in the short fire-call.

"Thanks for the call, Ed," Crane said. "Do you think it might be true?"

"Maybe," Hopkins allowed. "I recall that the boy was British—it's likely he hasn't heard of the Jersey Devil, so he wouldn't think to try to make some sort of hoax centered around it. Here, take a look at the letter."

_Dear Healer Hopkins,_

_I don't know if you recall, but you spoke to me several days ago at the Franklin Institute about some interesting fields of magic and courses of study I might undertake in my spare time, and prescribed me some nutrient potions to correct malnourishment. Anyway, I went on a camping trip to the Pine Barrens on Friday, and encountered some sort of demon in the forest which might need to be brought to the attention of the authorities or, at least, someone in the field of dark creatures. Would you, or anyone you know of at the Institute, be interested in hearing my account of the encounter? If so, please send a reply with my owl. I will be departing the city on the 5th of July, so—in light of the holiday tomorrow—today would be the best opportunity to discuss what happened._

_Regards,_

_Harry Potter_

Crane let out a low whistle. "This could be the real deal, you know," he said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. "Maybe this kid saw something that will show us how to kill those damn things."

Thirty minutes and two more owl messages later, the two men were knocking on the door to Harry's room at the Alexander Inn, and were promptly ushered inside by a pale, dark-haired teenager. The three wizards stood in an awkward silence, until Hopkins broke the ice.

"It looks like those nutrient potions are working well for you," he observed. "Seems like you've grown at least three or four inches, and put on about ten pounds. Have you noticed an increase in appetite?"

Harry smiled gratefully, and blushed slightly at the attention. "Yes sir, and thank you very much for telling me the potions I need to take. Now that I've had time to think about this weekend, I think they also helped my stamina, which probably saved my life on Friday night."

This statement snapped Crane's attention back to the boy, which reminded Hopkins that he had brought Crane along.

"This is Jacob Crane, an expert in dark creatures," he said.

Recognition flashed in Harry's eyes. "I've been reading your family's text on fighting dark creatures," he said.

This was a new wrinkle, Crane thought. Depending on the edition, it was indeed possible that the young man had in fact heard of the Jersey Devil.

"What edition have you been reading, and how far in have you gotten?" he asked casually.

"The 1988 edition, and I'm halfway through the twelfth chapter," Harry replied.

Crane cocked an eyebrow and shared a significant look with Hopkins. The 1988 edition was the most recent edition of the text, and both men were aware that the section on demons and devils began in the thirteenth chapter.

"Open it up to chapter thirteen," Crane instructed. "And skim through to where it mentions the northeastern United States." He watched the boy's eyes scan across the page, and suddenly go wide.

"This is what I saw," Harry whispered, his face even more pale. "It was terrible."

Harry recounted his tale. When he reached his reasoning about the patronus, Crane was skeptical.

"You can cast a corporeal patronus?"

In answer, a glowing silver stag cantered around the room before dissolving into glittering motes of light, quashing any further doubt. As the argent light faded, Harry continued his tale through to the end, leaving both older men in shocked silence. Finally, Ed Hopkins found his voice, and asked for the bone. Harry drew it from his pocket tossed it to him.

"You should step back before dispelling the transfiguration," Harry warned. "It's at least eight feet tall, and its wingspan is twice that."

A flick of Crane's wand proved the truth of Harry's claim, as the demon's corpse—in all its slightly-blurry malevolence—took up all of the available space in the room. As Hopkins blanched, Crane transfigured it back into a bone and sat down heavily.

"Harry, would it be possible for you to come to the Institute and give us a copy of your memory of the fight with this devil? We could leave now, and it would only take a few minutes."

Harry agreed, and, after a brief explanation of the function of a pensive, went to Crane's office at the Institute and provided the memory of the fight. The three then experienced the memory (Harry, of course, for the second time), which Harry narrated. Afterward, it was nearing dinnertime, so they adjourned to the Institute's cafeteria and continued their discussion over steaks and butterbeer.

"Harry," Crane said "I can't overstate how much your efforts will help us understand how better to hunt these beasts down. With your permission, I'd like to include your story in next edition of my family's book. I originally wanted to begin printing this summer, but with this new information, the Jersey Devils might all be hunted down in a few months, so I'll probably push it to the beginning of next year."

Harry was reluctant to get more famous, but he figured that at least this time it would be for something he actually remembered doing; plus, it wasn't as though anyone in Britain read American publications, viewing non-European wizards as "beneath" them. He agreed, and posed for a picture standing next to the slain devil, with his wand in one hand and his trusty dagger (which had not left his reach since he had used it to kill the creature) in the other.

"I'll send you the wording on the section later this summer, so you can add in and make sure everything is accurate," Crane said happily. "And after you are done in Wisconsin, you'll have a few weeks before you go back to Britain—if you want, you can spend that time with my department, and we'll teach you a few things."

Harry enthusiastically agreed to these terms; only a madman would turn down lessons from a team of dark creature hunters at one of the most prestigious research institutions in the country. After a quick eye exam from Healer Hopkins (who told him that he would likely regain most or all of his eyesight, and who told him to keep in contact about his condition) and handshakes from both men, Harry apparated back to the inn. After all, he had a mirror call to make.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Thus ends the tale of Harry's foray into the New Jersey Pine Barrens. So now the question is, as ladysavay put it, why did I include this in the plot? She's right; it does, in a way, appear to come out of left field, and from some points of view, it may seem that it was solely for a bit of action. I thank her for her insight, as it brings up a good discussion point; this, I feel, is the true purpose of reviews and Author's Notes.

Keep in mind that Harry originally set out planning to take day-trips throughout the summer. He's just spent a week exploring a fairly large, bustling city, and is looking for a calm, relaxing weekend before being surrounded by the inevitable chaos of the 4th of July celebrations and his subsequent departure for animagus training in Wisconsin. Also, he's a bit starved for magical settings—despite Philly having a thriving magical community, the city as a whole is quite non-magical. Where, nearby, is there a large, entirely magical setting into which Harry can immerse himself? Well, he heard a snippet of a conversation pointing him to the Pine Barrens, so he decides to check it out.

Why did I bring the Jersey Devil—and the subsequent drama—into the equation? Character development. In canon, Harry regularly charges into dangerous situations, all because he never stops to _think_. In his fifth year (in canon), this culminated in Sirius's death; despite the fact that it was probably a trap, Harry plunged into battle, only to find himself far out of his depth. There were several points in the Pine Barrens, before the Devil ever appeared, at which any thinking person would have abandoned the quest—he even acknowledges as soon as he realizes that he has no quick means of escape (portkey or apparation) that Sirius and Remus probably would not want him to stay in the woods. At the very least, he should have fled as soon as he noticed that the woods were changing behind him. I was also originally going to include an attempt to make a mirror call, only to find that the mirrors didn't function within the Barrens, and have Harry _still_ continue; however, I decided against it, because that would make him look absolutely idiotic, rather than just foolhardy.

Harry needs to learn, as he gains more independence and—arguably, adult responsibility—that his choices have consequences, and there won't always be someone around to save him from himself. Take second year—were it not for Fawkes's timely arrival, Harry would be dead. In third year, were it not for Dumbledore's intervention, Hermione would not have realized that she could use the time turner, and Harry would not have been able to save himself. Harry needs to stop counting on _deus ex machina_ to get himself out of tight spots, and learn to avoid those situations in the first place (as much as he can, considering his tendency to attract trouble, as tchizek noted).

Also, Harry needs to have it drilled into his mind—the way that children who grew up in magical families likely did—that the magical world is _dangerous._ He's grown up as an abused child, who no doubt sees magic as an escape; in his reverence and wonderment, he doesn't always see the darker, more savage aspects of its nature. To help bring this home, I've characterized magical America as being, in some significant ways, better than magical Britain. That does not, however, make it a glittering paradise of an escape; on the contrary, magical America, for all its progressive modernity, has dark and perilous facets which are in some ways worse than those in magical Britain.

My hope is that the increased caution these realizations will bring will serve Harry well, and aid him in becoming more independent and powerful.


	12. Independence Day

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry awoke on Monday, July 4th to the sound of revelry in the street below. Crowds were already gathering throughout the city for the parades, tours, and general merrymaking in the spirit of independence from Britain. Harry would have been more inclined to join in the masses of star-spangled humanity, but was still somewhat recovering from the blazing tongue-lashing that Sirius and Remus had given him the night before. Somehow, starting out the conversation with "Before you get too mad, let me first point out that I'm still alive" had failed to blunt their fury, especially when he was forced to recount all of the times during the adventure that he should have taken as signs to retreat.

It had gotten worse after Harry had let slip the general contents of chapter thirteen of _On Combating the Darker Forces of this Earth __and Beyond_ regarding the Jersey Devil and its hunting habits_. _According to Crane, the Jersey Devil preferred to eat its prey by scooping out and eating all of the internal organs while its prey was still alive (apparently because whatever hell had spawned it had somehow decided that everything else about that demon was not _quite_ horrible enough already); this revelation alone would have led to Harry being recalled to London, if Sirius and Remus had been available to keep watch over him. As they were busy hunting Pettigrew, though, they simply established a new rule regarding any side-trips that Harry wanted to go on—specifically, he had to thoroughly research any dangers associated with a prospective destination, and then convince the two older men that he would be able to keep himself safe. This new restriction did not bother Harry, as he had already resolved to be more cautious; it was abundantly clear to him that he was quite alone here, and he wouldn't always have anyone watching his back—he would do his best to avoid the darker places in America, which in many cases were more dangerous and savage than those of Britain. It did hurt, however, that the incident appeared to have damaged the trust that Sirius and Remus had for his judgment.

His thoughts coming back to the present, Harry—with a few helpful pecks on the back of the head from Hedwig—got out of bed, and began his last day in Philadelphia (as he would be portkeying to Wisconsin after lunch the next day) with bacon and eggs from the inn's breakfast buffet, before turning his attention to the Crane text. His appetite for excitement still had not quite recovered from the events of the weekend, and he was also still nursing several cuts and bruises from the mad dash through the woods. He spent the next several hours in his room, reading and practicing utility-type spells (as the setting was obviously inappropriate for practicing combat spells). It was not until he broke for lunch that he felt any inclination to venture outside.

At roughly 12:30 PM, Harry walked the short distance to Chinatown, and had lunch at a small restaurant. As he washed down his Lunch Special #13 with a can of root beer, an obviously magical (easily identifiable by the way the eyes tended to slide past it, if not by the store's name) pet shop caught his eye. He paid for his meal, tipping generously, and walked across the street to the "Philadelphia Magical Animal and Pet Supply Co." The 19th-century styling of the building was not unique in the city, but it stood out in Chinatown, even compared to other shops serving the magical community.

The ting of a bell on the door announced Harry's entrance into the store, and he took a quick glance around. It was at least thrice the size of the Magical Menagerie on Diagon Alley, where Hermione had purchased Crookshanks. The selection also appeared to be more diverse, and signs posted around the store proclaimed that, upon request, orders could be placed for creatures not normally in stock. It was somewhat cleaner than its British counterpart, and several attendants scurried about, feeding the animals and speaking to customers.

Harry passed the owl aisle (as Hedwig was more than sufficient for his postage needs, and a rather faithful pet as well), and avoided the monkey cages altogether, as their simian faces reminded him rather unnervingly of the statue of Salazar Slytherin in the Chamber of Secrets. Plus, he didn't quite fancy spending all of his time running around Gryffindor tower apologizing for whatever disgusting mischief a pet monkey would inevitably perpetrate. He also bypassed the cages of cats and rats, having been put off both creatures entirely in the past year; the former by Hermione's nigh-psychotic half-kneazle, and the latter by Pettigrew's treachery.

He soon came upon a series of terrariums containing amphibians and reptiles. There were frogs and toads, ranging in size from an inch up to well over a foot in length. Some purportedly had powers that would put Neville's toad Trevor to shame, as his only magical power seemed to be his uncanny ability to escape from Neville. As soon as Harry's eyes came to rest on the snakes, though, he knew that he would almost certainly be leaving the store with one of them, as his mind blazed through the arguments in favor of and against such a companion.

On the one hand, magical Britain almost universally considered snakes to be untrustworthy, and those with the ability to speak to them were often painted as potential dark lords. On the other hand, it was already a matter of public record that Harry was a Parselmouth, so there was little left to lose on that front. Also, a pet with which he could actually exchange conversation would be excellent; as much as he loved Hedwig, she couldn't talk to him, and Harry was, in general, quite lonely. The idea of having a friend that he wouldn't have to share with anybody else, therefore, appealed to him greatly. Perhaps most importantly was that having a snake would be a statement; Harry was a Parselmouth, and he didn't care what anyone else thought about it, because he was done proving over and over again that he was not a dark wizard.

Harry looked at them, trying to decide which to choose. There were a few cobras, a black mamba, and a boa constrictor, all hissing at him to choose them over the others. However, one snake in the back of the large terrarium stood out. The dark, distinctively-patterned diamondback rattlesnake—the only snake not practically begging to be chosen and fed fat mice—raised up its triangular head, and stared into Harry's eyes.

"_Do you not wish to be chosen, rattlesnake?" _Harry asked in Parseltongue, quietly enough that none of the other customers or attendants could hear. Every snake immediately all fell silent—it was almost unheard-of for a human to be able to speak their language.

After a long silence, the snake answered. _"I know what I can offer you,"_ it hissed. _"I can slither unseen, guard your secrets, and kill your enemies. You have not made any offer to me."_

Harry stared back into the snake's eyes. _"You have a steady supply of food here, but I can let you hunt. You have a warm rock here, but I can offer you the sun. And you have glass walls here, but I can offer you freedom. All I require is your loyalty."_

There was another long silence before the rattlesnake lowered its head in a sort of bow of submission, and gave its reply. _"You will have it, master."_

"_Do you have a name, snake?__"_ Harry asked.

"_Snakes have no use for names, except with humans,"_ it replied. _"If you are to be my master, it is for you to name me."_

"_Come with me,"_ Harry said. _"And I will give you hunting, the sun, freedom, and a name."_

Harry smiled, lifted the lid of the terrarium, and allowed the rattlesnake to slither up onto his shoulders. He drew numerous incredulous stares from other customers, and even the cashier who took his money looked more than a little unsettled. Harry didn't care; as he walked out of the store, his thoughts turned to the flag he had seen at Independence Hall, just before leaving for the Pine Barrens the previous Friday afternoon. It was ironic, he thought, that an Englishman in Philadelphia on the 4th of July should choose the first symbol of independence from Britain as his companion; despite that, the same symbol was an accurate way to describe the entire underlying purpose for his trip to America. On the surface, of course, he was here to learn to be an animagus; however, that was just an expression of the true reason for the trip, which was to allow him to get out from beneath the yoke of Dumbledore and the Dursleys, spread his wings, and breathe free air for once.

With a crack, he was back in his hotel room. He put the rattlesnake down on the armchair in front of the window, where it promptly coiled up and hummed, clearly enjoying the way the sun's rays warmed its scales. Finally, he broke the silence that he had been holding while thinking such weighty thoughts.

"_I have __decided__,"_ Harry hissed. _"Your name is Gadsden." _

Harry spent the remainder of the afternoon catching Gadsden up on his life back in Britain, and the plans for the summer. By the time Gadsden was up to speed, it was time for dinner; for Harry, this meant pizza and a coke, while Hedwig and Gadsden each got a live mouse. Harry was glad that Gadsden had let the mouse run around for a while before hunting it down and killing it; if he had had to listen to its hissed exclamations of delight about the "_squishy juicy mousey" _while he had been eating, he would have lost his appetite.

After dinner, Harry went outside, following the tide of people towards the good viewing areas to see the fireworks display. Once he arrived, he apparated to the roof of a nearby building, to have a better view, just in time for the opening salvo. Amid bursts of color and blasts of sound (set to renditions of several popular and famous American songs, including the national anthem), Harry spent the better part of the evening basking in the glow of the fireworks. Around 10 PM—by then thoroughly impressed by the show, but too weighed down by fatigue to stay out any longer—he apparated back to his room, brushed his teeth, and crawled into bed, falling asleep nearly the moment his head hit the pillow.

* * *

**Author's Note**

So, there's the answer to the cliché pet question. As Harry reasons, a snake is a good companion for him both for its usefulness and as a symbol of his growing independence. Haters are always gonna hate, but Harry doesn't give a shit.

Kairan1979 brings up a good point—it is not my intent to bash magical Britain and Dumbledore; rather, I'm using magical America as a counterpoint to Harry's life in Britain. I've shown with the Pine Barrens (and I'll try to show in later chapters) that America has its dark side as well; even though it's more modern, it's a huge country, with vast, savage wildernesses chock-full of all manner of dark creatures, cults, and magical criminals; it just so happens that he's not super-famous in America, so not every nefarious plot ends up centered around him.

The idea is for Harry to use the opportunities offered in America to improve his lot back in Britain—rather than taking Dumbledore's will as his commands, he will instead be his own person. That doesn't mean that Dumbledore is evil; far from it. He's just meddled unduly in Harry's life, and has been largely ineffective in his various positions, and Harry is finally learning how to put this information together and come up with his own ideas of how his life should be run. My feeling is that once he's had the chance to be responsible for himself, he won't be so quick to allow his will to be subsumed by that of his professors and the Dursleys.

Boba Fart also brings up a good point, but I think comes down on the wrong side of it—Harry _is_ weird. He visits museums alone, and stays in his room alone, and goes camping alone, because he has always been alone. He spent the better part of his formative years in a dark, spider-filled cupboard, and in three years at a boarding school with hundreds of other magical children, he has made two friends, and maybe ten or so acquaintances. In canon, Harry is a naturally introverted, emotionally closed-off person, and I've dumped him in a strange land, in a city of millions, where he is an outsider, and trying to keep a low profile to boot, since there's always the chance that someone will spot the "Boy-Who-Lived," and connect the dots (and if Dumbledore finds out that he's not at Privet Drive, he'll be hunted down, and the whole trip is over). On top of all that he's a Brit in Philly on Independence Day—all told, he's going to be uncomfortable getting to know people, and it's not like he can go to a bar, because he isn't even 14 years old. I think it's completely in-character for him to spend most of his time in relative solitude.


	13. The Bear and the Maiden Fair

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The day after Independence Day, Harry awoke at 9 AM. In fact, he would have slept even later, if not for Gadsden, who, knowing that Harry needed to be awake soon, shook his tail rattle in Harry's face. Once awake, Harry showered and began packing all of his clothing and equipment, for in a few hours, he would be portkeying to Wisconsin for the better part of the remainder of the summer. Finally, checked out of the inn, and then donned the red Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap that he had purchased at a ball game the previous week. He had not fully understood the sport, and it certainly was not as exciting as Quidditch, but it did have a relaxed, old-timey sort of charm; even though the Fightin' Phils had lost, Harry and most of the other spectators had enjoyed themselves. Healer Hopkins had turned the cap into a one-use portkey for him; to activate it, he would have to put on the cap and say (as apparently using sports slogans was common for portkey activation phrases, at least in this city) "Go Phillies!"

Harry ate one last Philadelphia-style meal—a cheesesteak, a soft pretzel, and a bottle of root beer—before making sure he was touching his trunk, Hedwig's cage, and Gadsden (who was coiled loosely around his left arm). Since he now knew how rough a long-distance portkey could be, Harry chose to take this trip sitting down, so that he wouldn't fall down and disturb either of his pets.

"_This will probably be uncomfortable,"_ Harry hissed to Gadsden. _"Just relax and stay in contact with me, and it will be over quickly."_

Harry took one final look around the City of Brotherly Love before straightening the cap and activating the portkey. He felt the characteristic "hook in the guts" sensation, and Gadsden hissed in displeasure as they were magically catapulted off to Keshena, Wisconsin.

Harry, Hedwig, Gadsden, and the trunk landed, nauseated and uncomfortable, but still in the sitting position (so at least not sprawled out on the ground), right in the street in front of a short row of several buildings. These, Harry thought to himself, looked more akin to what he might find in Diagon Alley; rather than the shiny, clean beacons of modern corporate consumer culture he had found many Philadelphia-area stores to be, these were somewhat out of date in style, and were quite in need of maintenance and repair. The building on the corner had a large, white, bear-shaped sign hanging over the door, with the words "Great White Bear Inn" painted in red. It was the inn where Remus had tended bar, and had the same general feel and look as the Leaky Cauldron, the gateway between muggle London and Diagon Alley.

Harry's impression of the inn as the Leaky Cauldron's American counterpart was strengthened as he walked inside. It had the same dingy, dim appearance, the same slightly-magical ambiance, and the same feeling of being a hub of social activity. It being 10 AM, though, there were no patrons drinking at the bar, though there were several people taking in a late breakfast or early lunch at the booths that lined the wall opposite the bar.

Harry approached the "Tom" of the Great White Bear Inn, who looked to be a tall, strong, long-haired, middle-aged man, clearly of Native American descent, in stark contrast to the _actual_ Tom, who was old, hunched, wizened, of pasty-white English descent, and had more fingers than teeth.

"Excuse me, sir," Harry began, getting the man's attention (though he remained beneath the notice of everyone else in the room). "Do you know where I can find Morris Oshkosh? I was told that he could set me up with a room here."

"Sure, kid," the man said, breaking into a toothy grin, his dark eyes flicking up to Harry's scar and widening. Something flashed behind the man's eyes for a split second, before he schooled his countenance and continued. "You're lookin' at him. Morris Oshkosh, owner and sole proprietor of the Great White Bear Inn, at your service. You'll be Harry, then?"

"Yes sir," Harry replied, relief washing over him. He was, after all, quite far removed from any major hub of transportation; had these people sent him packing, he would have been in for a sorry time indeed.

"Well, then, you can call me Morris. Any friend of Remus is a friend of mine," Morris said genially, cocking an eye and tilting his head slightly upon seeing Gadsden coiled around Harry's arm, before gesturing toward the stairs. "Grab your stuff and follow me up to your room. How is that mangy old wolf nowadays?"

"Still a bit shabby, but overall pretty good. He met up with an old friend of his, and they've been traveling together." Harry didn't bring up the who, the where, or the why, but Morris was savvy enough to realize that it was not a topic for discussion at this time.

"Good, good. Here we are," Morris said, stopping on the third floor and opening room 301. It looked quite nice, if a bit small (though still at least twice the size of "his" room at Number 4 Privet Drive) with a fireplace, a four-post bed, a television, an en suite bathroom, and a better view of the small town of Keshena than the Cauldron's rooms had of Diagon Alley. Harry's room in Philadelphia had had a television, but he had only ever watched for the news and weather, not being particularly interested in the dramatic, comedic, or sports programs; he was a bit surprised that there were televisions here, considering the magical nature of the patrons. Morris noticed Harry's surprised look, and reminded him that it was a small tribal town, and magic was at most an open secret here.

"Take the rest of the day to wander around the town," Morris suggested. "The dark moon isn't until Thursday the 7th, so you don't have to start fasting until after breakfast tomorrow morning. I suggest eating large meals until then. We'll talk about your training at dinner tonight. Meet me downstairs at the bar at about six."

Harry nodded his assent, and Morris clapped him on the shoulder before returning downstairs to prepare for the lunch rush. Harry wondered briefly at Morris's reaction to his scar—so far that had been the first double-take anyone in America had done when they had seen it. Putting it out of his mind, Harry unpacked, made sure he had what he had come to call his "gear"—both wands, his shrunken broom, the long dagger with which he had killed the demon, the invisibility cloak, the mirror, and the Marauder's Map (which he carried out of habit, despite its relative lack of utility outside of Hogwarts)—and left Hedwig and Gadsden in the room (both of whom were still queasy and disgruntled from the portkey) before apparating outside to begin exploring the small town.

There really was not much to explore, Harry noted. Keshena was what Americans called a "blink town" (as in "blink and you'll have missed it"), with a population of less than 1,500 people, and contained little more than a few gas stations and convenience stores, a hardware store, a supermarket, and a clothing and outfitter's store. In fact, the most prevalent business seemed to be the Great White Bear Inn. Harry quickly realized that the town was generally impoverished, though many seemed to work in other towns outside the county, especially at a casino (located almost 200 miles away) run by the tribe. To get a better view of the surrounding area, Harry put on his invisibility cloak, climbed onto his Firebolt, and shot up into the air. From a few hundred meters above the ground, Harry could see much of Menominee county, most of which was covered in woods. He could also see the nearby Wolf River, which Remus had apparently romped in as a werewolf. He wasn't planning on going camping again, but it was likely that he would spend some time flying above the woods and river.

After a few hours of flying (Harry may have overdone it a bit in his excitement at being back on a broom again), Harry landed in an alley between buildings and took off his cloak, pocketing his cloak and broom—shrinking the broom had, by this point, become almost a reflex action for Harry; he had determined to never go anywhere without it, and had spent well over an hour practicing shrinking and unshrinking it, until he could perform the charms both silently and wandlessly. He didn't notice the girl eating an ice cream cone across the street, though, who had clearly seen him appear out of thin air. Eyes wide, she watched him walk over to the inn, and then followed him inside.

Harry sat at a booth in the back, and picked up his menu. Most of the other booths were full, though everyone seemed to be finishing up their meals. It was, after all, past 1 PM, so the lunchtime rush was winding down. He had just decided that he would get a burger and fries (he had seen several patrons eating them on the way in, and it looked delicious) when the menu was snatched out of his hands.

"What's up, invisible man?" asked a lilting, feminine voice.

Harry's eyes widened in surprise, and his wand was suddenly in his hand beneath the table and pointed at the person who had slid into the booth across from him. After a moment, he relaxed slightly, as he took in the details of the girl who was staring at him. She was slender, had dark hair (a dark brunette, not the pitch-black of Harry's messy hair), and regal features, and was peering at him in badly-disguised interest. She was really quite pretty, Harry mused distractedly, before his mind snapped back to the present situation and his grip on his wand tightened again.

"I don't know what you mean," Harry said. "I'm just here to get a burger."

"Oh, I'm sure you are; the burger is quite good. Make sure you ask for the curly fries," she said casually. "But mostly I was talking about how you appeared out of thin air in that alley. Almost like magic."

Harry was about to deflect this statement, but was interrupted by the waitress, who took his order (distracted, Harry forgot to request curly fries) and then turned to the girl and asked "Anything for you, Annie?"

"Nah," the girl-who-was-apparently-named-Annie said cheerfully, her eyes never leaving Harry's face. "I already had ice cream for lunch. I was just talking to my new friend here. And change his fries to curly fries."

As the waitress walked off with a sly grin on her face, Harry again regarded his "new friend." "So, Annie," he began. "What's up?"

Annie, as it turned out, was the town's resident mischief-maker, and a living embodiment of the "it takes a village to raise a child" school of thought. She knew everybody, and everybody knew her. It probably helped that she was also Morris Oshkosh's daughter. Having turned 14 the previous week, she was exactly a month older than Harry, and apparently Morris had planned on teaching her how to achieve the animagus transformation alongside Harry and two older teens from the tribe, which she mentioned as soon as she realized that she was speaking to Harry Potter, "some British kid coming to visit for the summer" (which was how Morris had informed her of the summer's general plan).

In fact, after Annie identified herself as Morris's daughter and accepted Harry's explanation for the apparent invisibility ("magic," he had said simply), Harry had not had to deflect much. Taking strategically-timed bites of his burger and curly fries (which Harry semi-voluntarily shared with Annie), Harry succeeded in pushing most of the conversational burden back onto Annie, who either did not notice his ploy or did not care. She supplied a great deal of information in a blitzkrieg of conversation in that inimitable style of a teenage girl, and Harry was hard-pressed to keep up.

According to Annie—with whom Harry had by now realized he would be spending a great deal of time this summer—most of the different tribes followed the same general method of the animagus transformation, but in some cases, that was the extent of their magical ability. Some, though—shamans and medicine-men—were quite powerful, primarily using their magic to channel the elements and subtly influence plants and animals, rather than the magical traditions that had begun in Europe, which mostly used energy to cause direct effects (such as curses, charms, transfigurations). Morris was apparently a medicine-man of some talent, which had turned the inn into the town's de facto clinic, and he was quite qualified to teach the animagus transformation. Annie's own talents were less substantial but arguably extremely useful in the long run; she confided that she could mostly only influence plants. Not flashy, by any means, but once she honed it, she would likely be able to make a great deal of money managing a farm (agriculture, like every other business in America, was run like a Business With a Capital B, and could be quite lucrative).

Soon, though, Harry became comfortable with the girl, and began to contribute more and more to the conversation. It helped that she was very attractive; her hair was sleek and shiny, her eyes glinted with interest and cheer, her smile was wide and toothy (which she had clearly inherited from her father), her complexion was a sort of creamy olive that seemed to be exclusive to Native Americans, and she wore tight-fitting clothes that showed off her distinct curves. Harry had been generally aware of female anatomy in the past, but he had recently begun to notice and appreciate the more distinctly feminine aspects of female bodies, and Annie was head and shoulders above most of the other girls his age at Hogwarts (though admittedly several of the older girls—particularly those on the Quidditch teams, who were quite athletic—also compared favorably in retrospect).

Harry barely realized the passage of time, but suddenly it was time to meet Morris. He didn't even realize this, until Annie's eyes left his, and traveled up above Harry's head, her smile changing from the outgoing grin of companionship to the smile a young woman reserves for her father. Harry, never having grown up around children with healthy relationships with their parents, saw only the genuine nature of the smile on her face, and turned to see Morris walking up from behind him.

"Hey dad!" Annie called out, and Morris grinned his wide, toothy grin in response. Annie moved over, and Morris sat down next to her, placing three menus on the table.

"Good to see you two have already met," he said, a very Dumbledore-like twinkle of mischief and mirth in his eyes. "Am I going to have to have a conversation with Harry here?"

"Da-aa-ad" Annie fake-whined, rolling her eyes before both Oshkoshes broke out in grins. Harry, uncertain of the exact nature of the byplay, but understanding that it was a joke of some sort, managed a smile of his own.

"So," Morris continued once all three had ordered. "Basically, you'll both want to eat big breakfasts and an early lunch tomorrow, because you won't be able to eat anything past noon, or else you'll have to wait another month. You'll fast for the rest of the day, and all day the next day, and at sundown, you'll go through the vision ritual in a wigwam just outside of town. Then you'll see your form—or at least some aspect of your form—in your dream when you sleep out on the ground that night. It's pretty simple, really—you just need to have the strength of will to let out your inner animal."

The rest of the discussion, punctuated by the arrival of three plates of steak and curly fries, was on lighter topics, of a "get-to-know-you" nature. Both Oshkoshes quickly came to like the quiet British boy, and he likewise began to enjoy the company of the two affable Americans. Morris eventually had to go to the kitchen to assist in the dinner rush and the beginning of the late happy hour at the bar, leaving the two teens to chat. After a few more minutes, they adjourned to Harry's room, and Harry introduced her to Gadsden and Hedwig, before letting the owl out to hunt and telling her to bring back something for the snake.

Annie was quite taken with Gadsden, who also approved of her, hissing to Harry that she was quite warm as he coiled around her chest. Internally, Harry groaned—he never thought that he would be seething with jealousy at a snake, but here he was. As it neared 10 PM, Annie decided that she should go back to her room, and gave Harry a hug that seemed to linger a bit longer than it might have for two people who had just met.

"Goodnight, Harry Potter," she breathed into his left ear, before rising up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Perhaps a bit embarrassed at being so forward, she hurried back to her room. Blushing and stammering, Harry didn't manage to get out any words until after the door closed behind her. He reached up his left hand to touch the spot on his cheek that Annie had kissed, and a grin made its way across his face.

"Well, this summer keeps getting better and better all the time."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Serialkeller askes, "Why Gadsden?" Harry chose his owl's name by looking through _A History of Magic, _and picking one that fit, so we know he is okay with using historical names. The flag he noticed in Independence Hall was known as the "Gadsden flag," after its designer, and depicted a rattlesnake. As for occlumency/legilimency, I have always kind of wished that Rowling had not included such a potent branch of magic in her universe, which basically requires any fanfiction write to devote some time and effort to making sure Harry become proficient in it—there is simply no way for any independent Harry to be successful without some skill in occlumency. Now that it's there, though, I'll have to deal with it, lest Snape and Dumbledore immediately figure out everything that Harry did over the summer. I will do so in a plot-fitting manner, though—there won't be a repeat of Harry's abuse in the guise of occlumency lessons.

Kairan1979, for reference, Gadsden is a _Crotalus adamanteus_, the largest, heaviest, and arguably most dangerous of the rattlesnakes. Given the wide range of habitats, latitudes and elevations in the Americas in which rattlesnakes—particularly _C. adamanteus_ and _C. horridus_—are found, I think Gadsden will be fine in the UK; there are snakes native to the region, and if they manage to thrive, Gadsden should as well. And keep in mind that it is a magical animal, and more durable than its non-magical counterparts—even Pigwidgeon, due to his status as a magical owl, doesn't seem to be affected overmuch by the temperature, despite his tiny size. What his powers are beyond this—that is, if he has any—shall remain unknown, until Harry discovers them.

This chapter also marks the beginning of the main part of Harry's summer. I previously stated that romance will not be a significant element of the plot, and I stand by that statement; that said, Harry is a teenaged boy, and—speaking from the experience of someone who once was a teenaged boy—girls will never be far from his mind. Now he has met one who actually seems to like him, which makes sense—to Annie, Harry is probably pretty exotic, and using an entirely different kind of magic than anyone she has ever met, he probably seems very powerful, too. Both Harry and Annie know, though, that Harry will return to Britain at the end of August, so any "romance" between them will be confined to a short, intense summer fling—hence her forward advance so soon after meeting him. Morris may even turn out to be a fairly enlightened parent, and approve of this sort of "summer loving"—he knows Harry won't be here to stay, and it would be a good "starter" relationship for his daughter that won't have the possible consequence of confining her to the reservation for the long term, or cause any long-term small-town drama. We shall see!

Finally, Harry's scar and Gadsden. Morris is the first person in America to have any significant reaction to Harry's scar, and the reason for that is steeped in tribal magical lore, which I am basing largely (with a liberal helping of artistic license) on tidbits of information on Native American history and cultural traditions. His surprise upon seeing Gadsden is for the same reason.


	14. A Girl and Her Jeep

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry awoke on July 6th with a grin still plastered on his face. He had had an excellent dream, featuring all of the female Quidditch players at Hogwarts (Katie Bell was featured heavily), and—perhaps unsurprisingly—starring Annie Oshkosh, the beautiful daughter of his landlord, odd-job-assigner, and animagus teacher. He would have to step carefully around Morris, Harry thought, but Annie had seemed to be attracted to him, and he resolved not to let such a chance pass him by.

After sorting out his...situation, Harry got out of bed and showered. Gadsden wouldn't need to eat for another few days, and Hedwig would probably hang around until hunting later that night, so Harry was the only one of the three who needed to eat breakfast. As it was already 9 AM, he only had three hours to shovel down as much food as he could, since he would not be able to eat again until breakfast on the 8th, roughly two days away. Harry was not certain why the fasting was necessary (though Remus had mentioned something about the hunger helping him get in touch with his primal side), but he was not particularly worried, as the Dursleys had trained him quite well on how to deal with hunger, thirst, and discomfort in general.

Harry ended up eating breakfast with Annie, who staggered sleepily downstairs about a minute after him. Both teens heeded her father's advice, and ate far more than either would normally have for breakfast. Feeling over-full and bloated after breakfast, Harry and the Annie engaged in a bit of light conversation with Morris; by mutual unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the goodnight kiss (such as it was) in front of her father, though when he was distracted by a friend's greeting, Annie shot Harry a sultry smirk and a saucy wink. Harry just barely managed to hide his blush before Morris turned his attention back to the teens. Morris, of course, let the teens think they were being sneaky, though they were in fact being quite obvious to all of the adults (they had, after all, been teens once themselves). He decided to stay out of it—his daughter could take care of herself, and he had a good feeling about Harry.

Morris told Harry that they'd discuss some of the work he wanted done the day after the dark moon; Harry wouldn't be expected to get anything done until the weekend, once the fatigue of the ritual had largely passed and he had a bit of time to get acquainted with the town. Harry was grateful for the grace period; however, he did have something he wanted to ask.

"Sir," Harry began, before Morris cut in—"Remember, Harry, call me Morris"—"I noticed yesterday that you seemed to, well, notice my scar. You were the first person in America to have any sort of reaction to it. Why is that?"

"Ah, I was wondering when you would ask me about that," Morris replied, sitting back in his chair. "I promise I'll tell you, but it should wait until after the dark moon—I don't want to accidentally influence the outcome of the ritual by telling you prematurely." He must have seen Harry's look of consternation, because he quickly amended "It's nothing bad, though, so don't worry about it. You have my word, as soon as you describe your ritual dream to me, I'll be able to tell you. I won't know for sure until then, anyway."

Harry didn't notice, focused as he was on Morris, but Annie's eyes suddenly widened in a flash of dawning realization. As soon as Harry's attention left Morris, he gave his daughter a pointed look and a slight—but to Annie, quite clear in meaning—shake of the head. She nodded subtly, agreeing not to mention her thoughts to Harry.

"Well, if that's all," Morris said, standing up, "it's 10:30, so it's high time to start getting ready for the lunch rush. I guess you two aren't very hungry, so just remember not to eat anything past noon. If you're not hungry now, you won't get hungry by noon, not for real, anyway—don't let your mind trick you into thinking you need to eat something right under the wire. And Annie, try not to get Harry into too much trouble."

Rolling her eyes, Annie grabbed Harry's hand and dragged him out of the booth. "Let's go, green-eyes," she chirped happily. "Today, I'm gonna teach you how to drive a Jeep."

* * *

Harry sunk into the bath with a groan, and though back over the day's events. The Jeep had been a relic of the second world war (complete with tell-tale bullet holes), and though it still ran astonishingly well, the suspension felt like it had not been serviced since the little truck had been brought back from Berlin after the war. Annie had proved to be a surprisingly effective driving instructor, despite the fact that she should not have been allowed to drive in the first place (the minimum age for getting a driver's license was sixteen). Despite the bumpy ride, Annie's enthusiasm had carried the day, as she taught Harry to shove the truck across even the roughest off-road terrain. He certainly wasn't about to get a driver's license, but by the end of the day, he had learned enough to be able to drive in a pinch; Harry was glad, as it seemed like it would be a useful skill (especially in America, where transportation appeared to be completely dominated by the automobile—hadn't they ever heard of trains?).

Annie cleverly made sure to keep them out past the dinner rush, so that they wouldn't be tempted by the enticing scents of the Great White Bear Inn's deliciously greasy pub fare. Eventually, they had ended up walking along the treeline near the parked Jeep, talking about magic and school. Each thought the other was saying the most fascinating things (in retrospect, it occurred to Harry that this was surely a sign of mutual attraction, as though their not-so-subtle glances at each other all day long had not been enough of a clue). After the sun went down, with only Harry's wand and the headlights of the idling Jeep for light, the two decided it was best they head back to the inn, lest Morris get worried about them. Plus, they were both in need of a shower, as it had rained early that morning, and the Jeep was open-topped (thus, they were covered in mud).

Right before the teens went into the inn, Harry performed a few quick cleaning charms; that sort of household-type spell really was not his strong suit, but Annie was quite impressed, having feared that her purple tee-shirt had been stained beyond recovery. She gave him a quick kiss—little more than a peck, really—on the lips in appreciation for his efforts, and bounced inside, leaving Harry blushing stupidly before he got his head back on straight and followed in her wake.

Though the cleaning charm had removed the most offensive stains and clumps of dried mud, both teens were still quite filthy, and had immediately gone to their respective rooms to bathe. Now alone with his thoughts, Harry mused that Annie had now kissed him twice. Should he try kissing her? Should he wait for her to show more interest? He just didn't know. Part of him wanted to mirror-call Remus and Sirius, but he didn't want to deal with the inevitable—though clearly good-natured—teasing that would result from asking those two reprobates about girls. Sighing, he gave it up as a bad job, and decided that he would just play it by ear.

After his bath, Harry plunked down onto his bed, and took out a few charms and transfiguration texts that he had bought to supplement his school books. He figured that many of the "odd-jobs" with which Morris would task him would involve the repair of buildings and equipment, so he thought it would be a good idea to brush up on spells that would make his work easier.

It was later—around 10:30 PM—when there was a knock on his door. Harry opened it to see Annie standing in what was likely her sleepwear, or at least what she preferred to wear around her own rooms when it was warm out. His breath caught in his throat as he took in her appearance; she wore only a light blue tank-top and a pair of red short-shorts. Her clothes were quite form-fitting, and Harry, in his basketball shorts and tee-shirt, suddenly felt baggy and ridiculous.

Finding his voice (after what seemed to be an eternity), he invited her in, looking away from her swaying hips and desperately trying to think of anything calming, and even more desperately trying to forget that he had noticed that she didn't appear to be wearing a bra under her tank-top. Annie stood awkwardly in the center of his room, and after a beat, Harry realized that she probably felt nearly as self-conscious as he did. Finally, she broke the silence.

"What's up, invisible man?" she asked in a cheery, forced-casual voice.

Harry smiled gratefully as the tension broke, and they quickly melted back into the easy banter that they had managed all day. He explained that he was doing a bit of studying in anticipation of repair work, and then provided a few demonstrations of the color-changing charm (which he would use to "paint" things) and the _reparo_ charm.

"What else can you do?" she asked, enjoying the demonstration, but she was clearly not that impressed with what were—though quite useful—admittedly on the level of parlor tricks.

Harry grinned, knowing exactly what to show her. "You'll like this," he said. "It's my favorite spell, and it saved me and my godfather from dementors this past school year."

He cast a quick silencing charm on the room, flourished his wand, and called out "_Expecto patronum!"_

The radiant silver-white stag circled the room, trailing motes of glittering light. Annie's eyes were wide with awe; Harry was more than a little pleased that he had managed to impress her. Once it was clear that there was no danger present, the stag walked to the teens, exuding a warm, hopeful aura. Harry reached out a hand, petting the stag on its flank, while it nuzzled Annie's outstretched fingers with its nose.

"Hey, Prongs," Harry said quietly. He kept the stag in the room for another minute or so, both teens just basking in its aura, before allowing it to dissipate. After that show, it was Annie's turn to struggle to find words, as she sat down heavily on the armchair.

"That was incredible, Harry," she whispered, her dark eyes shining with awe. "It felt so..." she trailed off, gesturing helplessly.

"Yeah, I know," Harry softly. "Everyone's patronus is different. Mine is a stag, like my dad's animagus form. He and my godfather became animagi at school because Remus was a werewolf, and they wanted to keep him company during the full moon. The gave each other nicknames, and his..."

"...was Prongs," Annie finished quietly. "I'm glad you showed me that, Harry."

"Me too," Harry replied, allowing the conversation to drift into a comfortable silence as the emotions brought to the surface by the patronus faded.

"I was feeling a bit worried about the ritual tomorrow," he said after a while. "Do you know what we have to do?"

"Yes; it isn't too difficult, but it will be tiring," she said, glad to be talking about something less emotional than the patronus. "Basically, my dad will teach us all a chant to sing, along with a simple dance. We do the dance around the fire outside the wigwam while chanting, then sit around the fire inside the wigwam, which has some special ingredients thrown into it. I don't know what exactly they are, but we'll basically end up having a sort of hallucination as we fall asleep. Our dreams will give us clues about our animal forms."

"I'm glad I'm doing it this way," Harry noted. "It took my dad and Sirius almost two years to manage the transformation, and it required hundreds of transfigurations and a lot of studying their animals. This way seems a lot simpler."

"It makes sense, when you think about it," Annie replied. "Animals don't study things, and they don't break things down into processes. If you're trying to merge with your animal, it is much easier to do it in a way that the animal is more comfortable with."

The conversation lulled into a silence again, and both teens seemed to be trying to look at anything other than each other. This, of course, failed almost immediately, and after each snuck in a few subtle glances, their eyes met, and both simultaneously burst into laughter. The tension drained again, and Annie got up to leave, preparing to say goodnight.

As she put her hand on the doorknob, Harry put his hand on hers, sending a warm thrill through both, and stopping her from opening the door. She turned to face him, cocking her eyebrow—the ball was clearly in his court.

"Wait," he said quietly. "I haven't said goodnight yet."

Before his Gryffindor courage (which somehow turned out to be much more useful in fighting basilisks and demons than for dealing with girls) ran out, Harry pressed his lips lightly against hers. Moments later, one of her hands had grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, while the other slid up to the back of his neck. Harry's hands ended up on her waist, which he felt was a safe place to put them.

"Goodnight," they sighed together as they pulled apart. Harry watched as she backed through the door, not taking their eyes off each other. The click of the door shutting snapped Harry out of his reverie, but it took a full minute before he moved from his spot by the door. He stumbled over to the armchair and sat down heavily, noting with pleasure that it still held some of Annie's warmth. After sitting and daydreaming a little more, he saw Gadsden slithering out from under the bed. Hedwig, he knew, was out hunting, but Gadsden might have distracted Annie's attention from him, and he was glad that Gadsden had stayed out of sight.

"_Thanks for not interrupting, Gadsden,"_ he hissed, running his hand through his hair. _"Girls are difficult enough as it is."_

"_I am surprised that you did not mate with the female," _Gadsden hissed back, clearly not fully understanding the nature of the interaction. _"You both seem to be mature. Maybe she is preparing to lay an egg for you."_

"_Gadsden, at some point, you and I are going to have a very awkward conversation," _Harry replied, amused at the snake's straightforward—and both socially and anatomically incorrect—ideas about human mating rituals. _"But for right now, I'm going to bed. I've got a big day tomorrow."_

Harry took off his glasses, swept his charms and transfiguration books off his bed, and climbed under the covers. Despite his fatigue, sleep would be a long time coming, as his mind was busy thinking about a dark-haired girl in a tank-top. Just before he finally fell asleep, he grinned in anticipation, knowing that whatever his conscious mind could cook up, it would have nothing on his actual dreams.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Pisces heiress Black asked an interesting question, the answer(s) to which will dominate my Author's Note for this chapter—specifically, whether Harry's fame was contained to Europe and Eurasia. Indeed it was, and for several reasons (all of which I have more or less made up for the purposes of plot- and world-building, but which I feel make sense, or at least _enough _sense for my fine readers to throw me some willing suspension of disbelief).

First, consider that Harry became famous for something poorly-understood and entirely uncorroborated that happened in 1981, and this was well before the internet (not that the British magical publications would be available online). Basically, Dumbledore (or somebody) claimed that Harry had survived the Killing Curse, and that was taken as the truth in Britain, without any investigation whatsoever; what's more, Dumbledore refused to produce the boy, so the world has only his word (the details of which must remain secret, for the Greater Good, of course) that Harry is even alive, or that Voldemort is even dead. We're only aware of two major periodicals in magical Britain (the _Daily Prophet and The Quibbler_), and they are both little better than tabloids—how often do people around the world read British tabloids?

Second, all the stories printed about Harry are little more than rank speculation at best, and libel at worst—America being a very litigious society, no paper (at least in the 1980's and 1990's, when journalism was considered a responsible and respectable profession) would risk a lawsuit by printing or syndicating such obviously unsubstantiated bullshit.

Third, in my story, American magical society is much more intermingled with non-magical society, which means that they're already keeping track of what's happening in the muggle world—the average American wizard isn't going to take the time to also find out the minor details of how some terrorist accidentally blew himself up.

Fourth, relations between the magical communities of America and Britain are frosty, at best (in stark contrast to the relations between America and Britain in general), due in no small part to the fact that the government of magical Britain is absurdly, blatantly corrupt. Americans generally believe that "people get the government they deserve"—thus, if the British magical community isn't going to fix its government, it must mean that they're okay with it, which means that the society in general is equally guilty. They certainly didn't deserve to win the war against Voldemort, and when they did by sheer luck, their whitewashing afterward was deplorable and extremely damaging to their society. As such, magical Americans took a dim view of the happenings across the pond.

Fifth (and somewhat in the same vein), the United States had—relatively recently, throughout Voldemort's decades-long rise to power—just gone through significant social change, finally (at least legally) granting equal rights to all of its citizens. Fresh from the civil rights movement, American politicians did not want their names associated with supporting either side (the obviously-bigoted Ministry of Magic or the genocidally-bigoted Death Eaters), so contact with the British magical community dropped significantly, as it became politically expedient to remain neutral on the issue.

Sixth (and finally), magical Britain was and is a very small community, compared to magical America. Considering the fact that America was busy with the Cold War at the time (with espionage, sabotage, and proxy-war-advising being done by wizards on both sides), the civil war in magical Britain was little more than small potatoes. The Americans simply figured that if Voldemort won, the British government (to which the Ministry of Magic reports, despite the rather "hands-off" approach) would be forced to request American aid, and American special forces wizards would simply assassinate Voldemort and everyone bearing his mark. If Voldemort lost, then it was a moot point. Terrible though Voldemort undoubtedly was, he wasn't leading armies and seriously upsetting the global balance of power the way Grindelwald had, so he simply was not really worthy of notice.

I should point out that I don't hate magical Britain, and it isn't my intent to portray magical America as some glittering paradise of political-correctness (if not tolerance), but it is difficult to take seriously the canon Ministry of Magic and British magical society in general, which Rowling basically portrays as a bunch of rabid sheep who only listen to the most recent and most outlandish bleating of the loudest and richest animal in the barn. In _HPatLS_, magical Britain is somewhat insular and intolerant ("the only thing worse than not being a pureblood is being a _foreigner_"), and lost a lot of international goodwill because of it, while magical America is roughly analogous to, well...America, and in the 90's, everyone loved America.


	15. Zombie Interlude and Making Magic

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

While a messy-haired English boy was dreaming about a sleek-haired American girl in Room 301 of the Great White Bear Inn in Keshena, Wisconsin, two exhausted men stalked through a forest in the mountains of northern Albania, at roughly 4 AM local time. Having lost the trail of their quarry in western Europe the previous night, they had come to Albania to investigate the rumors of a cursed village—rumors which had suspiciously began shortly after Voldemort's downfall in 1981, died out around July of 1991, and resumed in June of 1992. It was a few coincidences too many, and Sirius and Remus had concluded that there must be some artifact, relic, or other remnant of dark magic in the area which Voldemort's wraith-like form was using as a home base in between possessions. If Wormtail went looking for his master, they reasoned, he would likely begin here.

Silenced and disillusioned, they approached the outskirts of town, constantly checking for traps and wards. They had both fought in the first war, and the several ambushes and fights—sometimes degenerating to brawls—into which Pettigrew had led them had awakened their long-dormant fighting skills. In fact, the fugitive and the outcast had killed (or captured, interrogated, and _then _killed) five of Voldemort's former (or not-so-former, as was rapidly becoming apparent) Death Eaters, along with an even dozen other assorted criminals who had had the misfortune to be doing dirty deals and deeds with Death Eaters when the duo came calling.

Suddenly, Remus froze, his eyes darting from side to side and his ears straining. His extra-sensitive nose—one of the few benefits of lycanthropy—had smelled something that had tugged at his memories from the first war.

"What is it, Moony?" Sirius whispered. He, too, remembered battles from the first war; Remus's superior senses had often alerted the Marauders to ambushes, and he had learned to take his friend's nose seriously back in their Hogwarts days.

Remus said nothing for almost a minute. Then, a slight breeze blew across the village toward the wizards, and the werewolf's eyes widened and flashed, changing momentarily from their normal light brown to amber. His nose twitched and then instantly wrinkled in what could only be disgust, as his amber eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back to bare his teeth in a feral snarl.

"Inferi!" Remus hissed, his voice thick with revulsion and hatred. Remus had once had to endure watching dozens of Inferi tear through a muggle picnic ground—he had been wounded and disarmed, and dared not to attempt to intervene, but also lacked the immediate means to escape. Since then, he had harbored an intense loathing (even more so than most wizards, which was already a significant amount) of the reanimated, cursed corpses. _Of course_ Voldemort would have an entire village full of Inferi.

As they silently and invisibly crept into the village, both men raised their wands, knowing that once they began casting, they would be unable to hold the concentration necessary to maintain their disillusionment charms. If they were discovered, they would have to make their first few salvos of spells count. Soon, they were in the village's central square, and suddenly, both felt what seemed to be cold water running down their spines. In an instant, they knew that, distracted as they were by the threat of the Inferi, they had failed to dispel one of the protections laid over the village, and their disillusionment charms had been disabled. Simultaneously, both men roared out the incantations for their preferred flame-based curses (Sirius went with a relatively simple _incendio_ to mimic the effect of a flamethrower, while Remus fired off a _confringo _blasting curse), aiming at the hordes of Inferi lurking in the alleys leading off the square. They each cast their same spells several more times, but they knew that they were so heavily outnumbered that they would be forced to flee.

"Back to the treeline!," Sirius shouted. "We can whittle them down in the woods, or burn the forest down if we have to!"

Not waiting for Remus to either agree or argue, Sirius turned and sprinted the way they had come, torching several of the shoddy wooden buildings (they were, after all, filled with scores of rage-zombies) along the way. Remus was hot on his tail; having switched to _incendio_ as well, he took Sirius's "scorched Earth" tactic more literally, alternately transfiguring patches of dirt into pitch and setting them ablaze, to slow the Inferi down.

The pair spent the next few hours making hit-and-run attacks at the horde of Inferi, slowly reducing their numbers from hundreds to dozens; Sirius's suggested strategy had proven quite effective, though absolutely exhausting. As the sun rose, the remaining Inferi began retreating to the village—as they hated and feared light and warmth, they instinctively tried to get back to their dark, rotting homes. Remus and Sirius took the opportunity to chase them back, finally destroying the last of the Inferi before even reaching the smoldering remains of the village.

"Ok," Remus panted, "we've got to get some rest. How about we each do a few two-hour shifts, here on the outskirts? I can take the first watch—I'm still feeling pretty strong, since the full moon isn't for another few weeks."

"Good plan," commented Sirius, already beginning to cast a series of protective charms in a wide circle. After a few minutes of setting wards and charms, a large black dog curled up next to his only remaining friend, and went to sleep on the charred, blasted earth.

* * *

A few hours after dawn on July 7th, a young man with untidy hair was roused from his sleep by the warm rays of the sun upon his face. Blinking in the unexpected brightness, he grabbed his glasses and brought them to his face.

However, by this point, it had been nearly two weeks since he had downed a series of nutritional potions which had been prescribed by one of the preeminent magical medical researchers on the east coast of the United States. Healer Hopkins had, after a brief examination on July 3rd, predicted that Harry would regain most or all of his lost growth and eyesight. Now, his prediction was realized; for the first time, Harry could see better without his glasses than he could with them. His eyes still were not perfect, but if the potions continued to work, they probably would be within a few more days.

Excited, he told the good news to his pets; though neither shared his enthusiasm (Hedwig had whacked him on the head with her wing as retribution for waking her up, and Gadsden had commented that now he would look a little less ridiculous, but he still had too many limbs), Harry's mood was not dampened. Today was already looking to be a brilliant day—he would get to hang out with Annie, meet the other two prospective animagi that Morris would be instructing, and undergo the Native American animagus ritual at sundown.

After a shower, Harry looked at his clock; it was just about 10 AM. It had been roughly a full day since he had eaten, but he had stuffed himself so much then that he still was not feeling any pangs of hunger. Knowing that Annie would probably sleep even later (though he was accustomed to the lack of food during summers, she—as the product of a healthy home life—was not, and he expected her to feel weak and tired this morning), he pulled out his mirror and called Sirius and Remus.

"Hey guys, what's happening?" he asked brightly as their faces came into view. Both men looked tired and dirty, but looked happy to hear from him.

"Harry, good to see you!" Sirius said, grinning. "Not much going on here; last night we blew up a bunch of zombies, and now we're setting an ambush of our own for the rat."

"Zombies?!" Harry yelped in shock. "What the hell? How many? Where?"

Sirius barked out a laugh as Remus smiled and replied. "It was a few hundred of them, and we had to do hit-and-run attacks all night long, to kill them a few at a time. We're basically in the middle of nowhere in Albania—Voldemort must have transformed the entire village into Inferi at some point."

"We think that Voldemort's got some sort of base in the area, so we're scouting around and waiting for Wormtail. If he shows up, he's ours," Sirius concluded savagely.

"But onto lighter things," Remus cut in, shooting Sirius a significant look. "How is Wisconsin?"

"So far, it's great. Morris is treating me really well, and we're doing the animagus ritual tonight at sundown. Hopefully, I'll have some idea about my form by this time tomorrow." Harry deliberately did not mention that Morris was not the only Oshkosh who was treating him "really well"—he didn't want to jinx anything with Annie by going and blabbing all about her. That, he decided, would stay private for the time being.

"You'll do great, lad," Sirius said, a little misty-eyed (not that he'd ever admit it). "James would be so proud that you're taking after him and becoming an animagus. Moony and I were going to take bets on what you'll be—the thing is, we've both seen you on a broom, and we both think you'll be some kind of bird, like a falcon or something."

The thought had certainly crossed Harry's mind—after all, flying was one of the only activities that Harry truly loved doing (though, after the previous evening, kissing girls was certainly moving up on the list), so it would make sense for him to be a bird of some sort. Then again, his father had supposedly been great on a broom as well, and had ended up as a stag, so perhaps talents didn't have much to do with it.

"That would be cool, but I don't really know for sure how a form...happens," Harry said thoughtfully, not wanting Sirius or Remus to get too invested in something over which he had no real control. "I'll be happy as long as I don't end up as something ridiculous, like a hamster or a snail or something."

Remus suddenly tapped Sirius on the shoulder and muttered something too low for Harry to hear.

"Looks like we've got to sign off for now," Sirius said. "Moony just smelled a few Inferi that we must have missed last night, so we're going to go blow them up, too. Good luck with the ritual, Harry!"

"Wait," Harry called as Sirius started to pocket the mirror. The two faces came back into clear view. "Be careful, you two. Don't take any risks that you don't have to. I...well, just be careful."

"We will, Harry," Remus said soberly. "You take care of yourself, too."

After ending the mirror-call on such a serious note, Harry was in dire need of cheering up. Luckily for him, he soon found Annie downstairs talking to her father. As he approached, she turned and gave him a shy smile.

"Good morning, invisible man," she said, her smile widening.

"Good morning yourself, Jeep girl," Harry replied cheerfully.

"Okay, you two, remember to be back here by around four this afternoon," Morris said, putting a hand on each teen's shoulder. "We'll go over the chant you'll need to memorize, and the dance you'll need to do. Don't worry, it isn't complicated. Now, get out of here and find something to do. No books, Harry—you're too pale, you need to spend some time in the sun."

Grinning, the two teens shot out into the street, and soon decided—by mutual, unspoken agreement—to simply stroll around the town. As they cleared the outskirts, they found themselves in the same spot where they had parked the Jeep on the previous day; the tire tracks they had left in the then-soft ground were still visible.

"I like this spot," Annie declared, pulling Harry into the shade of a large oak tree. "This is our spot now."

Harry did not miss the emphasis she placed on "our," and stepped closer, still holding her hand. The next thing he knew, her lips were on his. As the two teens kissed, Harry felt something entirely unfamiliar in his chest and stomach. When they separated, Harry instantly missed the feeling, and moved to recapture it. He knew immediately after it began that this one was different, as Annie deepened the kiss, and was soon pressing his back up against the tree.

"You know," Harry said, after they came up for air an indeterminate amount of time later. "I think I'd be okay with spending a little more time in our spot."

Harry and Annie—both hastily cleaned off (as both had grass stains all over their clothing) with a few cleaning charms—returned to the inn at 4 PM, to find Morris talking to two older teens. It soon developed that they were named Andy Ford (no relation to Henry Ford, he immediately pointed out) and Carla Santos, aged 17 and 18 years old, respectively. Both were from families from the surrounding area (Andy was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and Carla was originally from Phoenix, Arizona but had recently moved with her family to Detroit, Michigan), who had been told of Morris's proficiency in teaching the animagus transformation, and both had just checked in at the Great White Bear Inn. Morris made the introductions, and they seemed nice enough. Harry noticed Andy's eyes subtly move down and back up Carla's body (understandable, given that he was a teenaged wizard and she was a quite attractive young witch).

Morris soon began drilling the four teens on the chant that they would have to perform. At first, the words were foreign in his mouth, as they were spoken in Menominee; however, after repetition, he found himself saying them more and more easily. In fact, as he spoke the words, he could almost feel the correct rhythm for the chant—it was almost as though magic itself was helping to guide him. The same was true of the dance—simple though it was, Harry had never danced a day in his life. However, he was quick and agile, and soon found himself quite capable of both dancing and chanting for the several-minute-long ritual.

By 6 PM, all of the teens were proficient, though Andy had had some difficulty with the dance (as a result of a knee injury recently sustained playing American football, which, though healed, still twinged painfully when moved in certain ways). Nevertheless, Morris deemed it likely that all would succeed, at least in the physical portion of the ritual. He dismissed them to their rooms to change into a set of ceremonial clothing that he had laid out on each of their beds, and told them to be back downstairs by 7 PM (as it was the middle of summer, sundown was to take place at roughly 7:30 PM).

Harry's confidence soon turned to horror upon seeing the clothing laid out for him. There was a feather headdress (a bit stereotypical, he thought, but whatever, fair enough), a beaded necklace with a large blue stone in the center, and what appeared to be a beaded loincloth—basically a short, all-leather version of Princess Leia's dress. Morris had been _very _clear that only this clothing was to be worn—no socks, shoes, watches, rings (emergency portkey or otherwise), and—most terrifyingly—no underwear.

Shaking his head and mentally ridiculing himself for being able to fight demons but not wear some ritual clothes, he cleared away his self-consciousness, disrobed, and put on the ceremonial garb. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was only 6:05 PM—of course, he hadn't had much clothing to put on, so now he had almost an hour to kill. After briefly describing the ritual and its purpose to Hedwig (who didn't seem to understand or care) and Gadsden (who suggested that Harry become a snake, as it was clearly the best possible form), there was a knock at his door. A quick glance at the clock told him that only five more minutes had passed.

Harry opened the door, and his entire brain short-circuited. There stood Annie in what could only be her requisite ritual clothing—if Harry felt exposed, she must have felt naked, for she was only "covered" in the most technical sense, wearing little more than some _tiny_ leather patches, beads, string, and a coy (though perhaps a bit nervous) smile.

"You trying to catch flies, invisible man?" she asked, her shy smile widening to a grin.

Harry's jaw snapped shut with an audible click, and he managed to stammer out a half-gibberish compliment before Annie stepped inside and shut him up the best way she knew how (that is, by kissing him senseless). They tumbled down onto his bed, and continued their previous discussion from under the oak tree, now with about 95% less clothing.

After about thirty minutes of wandering hands and tongues, Harry's alarm buzzed, signaling that it was 6:55. The two broke apart, much of their nervous energy spent. After spending a few seconds readjusting their clothing (such as it was), they proceeded downstairs to meet the other two teens. Andy looked even more uncomfortable than Harry had—perhaps Harry's many stays in the hospital wing had stripped him of some of his modesty—and Carla was a sight to behold. As she was older and curvier than Annie but wearing what appeared to be the same sized patch-and-string clothing, she might as well have been nude, for all it did to cover her. And Harry had thought that Annie must feel awkward!

Thankfully, they were not able to sit around with nothing to do but look at each other uncomfortably for very long; they were soon driven (in the Oshkosh family Jeep) to the large wigwam that Morris had constructed outside of town specifically for this purpose. It had a fire pit in the center, and was large enough on the inside to comfortably accommodate the four prospective animagi. Several meters away from the wigwam, a large bonfire was being built, around which they would chant and dance.

They had arrived within a few minutes of sunset. The chants and dance needed to start as the sun touched the horizon, and it would end once the sun was completely hidden from view. Morris directed the four teens to distribute themselves around the bonfire, and pulled out a drum from the back of the Jeep. He suddenly began beating a tattoo on the drum, and as the sun was about to touch the horizon, he started to count them off like an orchestra conductor.

"One, two, three, four...go!"

The drum's beat changed, and as one, the teens began to move and chant. As Harry and Andy leaped Carla and Annie would crouch; as the girls spun, the boys would slap both palms on the ground. The teens spun, jumped, ran, kicked, and contorted their bodies in just about every way it was possible to contort a body while dancing around a bonfire, chanting all the time. As the sun dipped lower and lower, the chanting grew louder and more insistent, and both the chanting and the dancing increased in tempo and intensity. What previously had been graceful became wild, and what had already been wild became savage. The tension built and built as the dance became chaotic and the chant became deafening, until—in the final instant of the sun's light peeking over the horizon—it broke, and all four teens, who had been high in the air for one final leap, crashed down onto the ground on all fours, and the fire flared higher and blazed brighter than the sun at any point during the sunset.

As soon as it had flared, the fire was out, and the teens were panting with exhaustion. Morris led them into the wigwam, where the fire (much smaller than the one outside) was already crackling. Once they were arranged around the fire, sitting with their legs crossed beneath their bodies, he tossed a small bag filled with several different herbs into the fire, and stepped outside. From here on out, the rest of the task was for the children to complete individually.

Harry's head swam, and he looked across the fire at Annie. Her eyes were shining, her hair was a dark tousled halo around her head, and her barely-there loose-fitting clothes had shifted, leaving her breasts bare and heaving from the exertion and the primal arousal that was raging through all four teens. Harry had never seen a more erotic sight in his (admittedly short) life.

The smoke, which had a curious smell and a greenish hue, began to cloud Harry's senses. Within a few moments, he couldn't even see Annie (a fact which a not-insignificant portion of his mind lamented deeply). Soon after, all four teens collapsed backward, the ingredients in the fire already acting on their minds.

* * *

Carla felt her hooves pounding as she ran across plains and deserts, and her hunger drove her to the ground.

* * *

Andy felt his clawed feet pushing through underbrush and trees, and his hunger drove him to a stream.

* * *

Annie felt her powerful haunches launch her off of rocks and branches, and her hunger drove her to a high-up perch.

* * *

Harry James Potter felt his wings catch the air, and his hunger made the sky scream.

* * *

**Author's Note**

This chapter had it all. Zombies! Kisses! Probably second base! The long-awaited animagus ritual! A kinda-sorta-cliffhanger!

New game: guess what each character's form is! I've already chosen them. You'll have plenty of time to guess, since I won't be able to post another chapter until 5/30, as I will be out drinking all night with my coworkers.

Note that I am purposely referring to Native American terms by their anglicized names (for example, "Menominee" is not that tribe's name for itself or its language, but it does happen to be the designation by which it is known by the US government). This is mostly for the sake of simplicity—I am not a linguist, and I don't feel like spending hours figuring out how to have display special characters.

Also, Annie isn't based on anyone in particular, and I don't intend for her to be some Mary Sue that takes over the plot. She is a supporting character at most, and when Harry returns to Hogwarts, he will most likely leave her behind, aside from occasional correspondence. Her presence in the story is for Harry to develop some basic understanding of how to deal with girls, and the confidence he gains as a result may serve him well in general.


	16. Sweet Dreams and the Sound of Thunder

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Gasping for breath, Harry sat upright, the smell of ozone still lingering in his nostrils and a final thunderclap ringing in his ears.

"Easy, kid," he heard from behind him. Harry twisted around and looked up to see Morris Oshkosh sitting in a folding chair by the entrance to the wigwam. "It's just after dawn. The others are still asleep."

Harry's gaze shifted swept around the room, noticing that each teen was covered in a light sheet. At some point during the night, Morris must have covered them, he realized; it was probably to protect their modesty in the morning. Carla's subconscious, however, had different plans; she had twisted her sheet into a wide rope, and had entwined herself with it like it was her lover, leaving herself quite exposed. Though Harry's was quickly becoming quite fond of Annie, he couldn't find it within himself not to at least take a nice long look at the curvaceous young woman, marveling at the fact that only a year or two ago, he wouldn't have looked twice. Harry was, for the first time, glad that the leather loincloth he was wearing was uncomfortably stiff, as was keeping his own raging hormones from embarrassing him.

Morris grinned at Harry's raised eyebrow. "No matter how many times I covered her up, she kept doing that. I was kind of hoping she'd wake up first, so a couple of teenage boys wouldn't end up ogling her, but I suppose it's not to be."

"Somehow, I think I will be okay with that," Harry said, smirking. "Andy is going to have his work cut out for him with her."

"Hmm, maybe not—she was looking at him just as much last night. Reminded me a little of how you and my daughter keep making eyes at each other."

Harry—whose gaze had come to rest on Annie's peaceful form—stiffened, suddenly overcome with the sense that he was in dangerous territory. What if Morris didn't approve of him? What if Morris sent Harry away, to keep him from his daughter? He looked up at the tall, powerful man with wide eyes.

"Don't worry, I know she can handle herself," Morris said lightly, easing Harry's unspoken but obvious concern with a casual wave of his hand. "Plus, she'd never forgive me if I got in the way of her business. Anyway, I'd be more worried about her walking all over you. She's mischief on two legs, that one."

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief with a breath he hadn't realize he was holding, and glanced around the wigwam again. Seeing the bedraggled state of the others, Harry was suddenly aware that he was quite filthy; he was covered in dirt and soot, which had turned into a sort of muddy paste when combined with a veritable river of sweat. In short, he desperately need to take a very long bath.

"You weren't in here all night, were you?" he asked Morris, hoping to lighten the mood and get away from the uncomfortable topic of the man's daughter. "I imagine we all smell pretty bad."

"Nah, if I had stayed all night, I probably would have passed out from the fumes you four were putting off," Morris replied, chuckling again. "I just came in to check every few hours, to make sure nobody spontaneously transformed. That can happen sometimes, if the animal's will is stronger than the person's."

Harry nodded, vaguely understanding. He could dimly recall times in the dream when he felt almost entirely overcome—presumably, that had been his form's will trying to impose itself on him. His ruminations, however, were interrupted by a fierce growl emanating from his stomach. His mind turned to the fact that he had not eaten since breakfast two days ago. Morris must have heard, because he got up, and told Harry that he already had breakfast cooking.

Harry moved to accompany him, but before he could stand, Morris told him to stay put. "I'll bring it out here," he said. "Keep an eye on the others; I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. If they're not all awake by then, the smell of food will probably wake them right up."

Harry nodded, perfectly willing to wait for food if it meant not getting up. He was quite sore; all of his muscles still burned from the dancing the previous night, and he had numerous bumps, bruises, and small cuts from thrashing about in his sleep. His eyes took a slight detour to peek at Carla for a few seconds, before landing back on Annie. Apparently, the talking had started to wake her up, as she began to stir as soon as Morris left.

"Mwwwwaaaaaa," she groaned, stretching her limbs out and sitting up. She opened her eyes and blinked several times, before she realized that she wasn't the only one awake.

"Some night, huh?" she asked, meeting Harry's eyes, which flicked down a bit as her sheet gathered at her lap, leaving her chest bare again. She gave Harry a sly grin; either she had planned that, or she didn't care that Harry saw. She got up and snuck over to sit down by Harry's side, bringing her sheet with her in case her father came in, and proceeding to ogle the mostly-naked Carla.

"He said he'll be back in fifteen minutes," Harry whispered. "And if you keep staring at her, I might get a bit jealous."

"Is that so," she murmured, and then sat on Harry's lap, facing him. "We'll have to see about that."

Harry recovered from his surprise at her actions quickly, and responded accordingly. Their pent-up arousal from the wildness of the previous night and (almost literally, in Harry's case) electrifying dreams combined with the fact that they were two effectively naked teenagers, and they were soon quite wrapped up in each other.

Luckily, Harry heard Morris's Jeep pull up in time to disengage himself. Once again, he would be saved—this time probably from a beating, rather than just embarrassment—by the stiff leather of the loincloth, though it required some quick adjustment, as one of Annie's hands had found its way inside. Likewise, Annie hastily returned to her previous resting spot, using the sheet to cover the prints that Harry's hands and mouth had left on her breasts, stomach, and inner thigh, which were otherwise quite obvious because of the layer of dirt and dust on her skin. As they did so, they both noticed that the other two teens were performing a similar cover-up, as Carla scrambled over the long-dead embers of the fire back to her original sleeping spot (incidentally giving Harry a front-row view beneath her skimpy loincloth as she scurried past). Andy shared a distinctly satisfied grin and wink with Harry, who blushed brightly and grinned back. Neither boy noticed that the girls were apparently having a similar "girl-talk" version of their silent conversation.

Morris entered the wigwam seconds later, not believing for a second the innocent faces that the teens tried and failed to present (Harry was still blushing, Annie was preening, Andy was smirking, and Carla had angled her sheet creatively towards Andy). Having been young once himself, he merely set down two large trays of sausage, bacon, and donuts, and went back to the Jeep to get more. As soon as the trays were down, the teens—previous lust shoved aside in the face of such a feast—descended like locusts. By the time Morris returned with a tray of eggs and bagels and several pitchers of water and juice, the first two trays were scraped clean, and the teens all had grease covering their hands and mouths. The eggs and bagels were similarly devoured, and the pitchers of water and juice were drained faster than Harry would have otherwise thought possible. It was like having four starving Ron Weasleys in one place, he mused, chugging a glass of orange juice.

After a few more minutes of shamelessly gorging themselves, the four teens piled into the Jeep. Since there were only four seats and Andy had taken shotgun, the other three sat in the back; Annie sat on Harry's lap, and Carla looked a bit put out to have her own seat. Because Morris was driving, and was fully capable of looking in the rearview mirror, they did nothing more than hold hands (though Annie moved her hips provocatively for the entire ride, reminding Harry that she was not wearing anything under her loincloth). The ten-minute ride was filled discussion of their dreams and speculation about their forms.

Annie had, at some point, caught a glimpse of the tawny fur that coated her wide paws, and combined with the pouncing down from trees and boulders, she was quite certain that she was to be a mountain lion. Harry wasn't familiar with that species, even when she clarified that it had many names, including "cougar," "puma," and "panther"—it took her calling it a "bigass cat" before he quite got it, leaving her to roll her eyes at the ignorant Brit. Carla was quite excited; she was an avid distance runner, and had seen a vague reflection of her form in a pool of water in her dream. The particular breed was unclear, but she was definitely a horse. Similarly, Andy loved hiking, and had found his form to be practically designed for that activity. He recounted trundling through the underbrush in the mountains, and when he dreamed of using large, heftily-clawed paws to climb a tree, he had narrowed it down to an American black bear (as no other bears on the continent could climb trees).

Harry remained quiet about his dream, simply asking questions of the others; in their excitement, they failed to notice that he wasn't really describing himself. He was slightly troubled about some of the aspects of his dream—though he was pleased to be (apparently) a large, powerful bird of some sort, the fixation on storms left him worried. The others had dreamed about the sun, and warmth, and pleasant environs, while his dream was full of dark clouds, driving rain, crashing thunder, and great tension that felt like barely-restrained destruction. Was the stormy nature of the dream some sort of reflection of his character?

Oblivious to his concern, the others went off to shower when the group got back to the inn. Morris, however, asked him to stay back.

"Not so fast, kiddo," he said, pulling out a barstool for Harry as he went behind the bar. "Remember, I promised to tell you about that scar. But for me to do that, I need to hear about your dream."

Harry nodded and sat down at the bar, staring off into nothing as he recounted his tale. "The first thing I remember from the dream was a flash. It was blue or white, or maybe both, with some gold added in. Then I was flying through clouds on big, broad wings. It was pouring rain, and the wind was incredible, but it didn't matter at all, because it was _my_ rain, _my _wind..._my storm._ There was thunder rumbling the whole time," he said, hearing the thunder in his mind as he spoke, like some ancient drumbeat. "And then I felt hungry, like you said we would from the fasting, but it was like I was angry, too. Like I was in charge of everything, so for me to be so hungry, it was like...an insult, an insult that I couldn't let slide. And then there was another flash, but brighter, and every color, and the loudest thunderclap I've ever heard."

Harry shook his head, and his eyes cleared up, as though coming out of a trance. "And then I woke up," he concluded, "and I could still smell the ozone from the storm, and hear that last thunderclap."

Morris—who had listed to Harry's tale with rapt attention and bated breath—exhaled, triumph in his eyes. "I knew it," he murmured to himself, before addressing Harry directly. "I knew it, the moment I saw that scar, but I had to be sure."

Harry looked at him expectantly, and Morris continued. "I think that it wasn't your mother's sacrifice that saved your life on Halloween of 1981, Harry. Honestly, she was not the only witch to ever die trying to protect her child, so I don't know how Dumbledore came to believe that it could have been that. What actually protected your life was the same thing that gave you that scar—your animagus form."

This flew in the face of everything that Dumbledore had ever told or implied to Harry about that night. Even Remus, after finding out that Harry saw and heard the final moments of his parents' lives when a dementor was near, was unable to fill in any details. But this new theory, far-fetched though it may have sounded, had the ring of truth, and Harry hung onto Morris's words.

"I'll diverge a bit, but you'll understand why in a minute," Morris continued. "You might be familiar with the phoenix, a kind of firebird, since Dumbledore has one. Powerful creatures, phoenixes. They have a life-cycle that allows them to purify their bodies with flame, and be reborn from the ashes. It happens every year or so. They can survive injuries by going through the process early—in fact, that is how Dumbledore beat Grindelwald in their duel. Grindelwald was actually winning, which was not much of a surprise, since he had spent the last few decades fighting and killing people before crowning himself Dark Lord and hitching his wagon to Hitler's Nazis, while Dumbledore had spent the last few decades teaching schoolchildren, and only occasionally participating in dueling exhibitions. The thing was, Dumbledore had recently acquired a phoenix, and just as Grindelwald fired the Killing Curse that would have ended the fight, Dumbledore's phoenix flashed into the path of the spell, distracting Grindelwald long enough for Dumbledore to subdue him. Then, of course, he spun that into "a creature of purity coming to aid Light's chosen champion in his fight against Evil," and got himself a bunch of titles and accolades. But that's politics, and beside the main point I'm trying to make."

"The point, Harry," Morris said, "is that, just like regular animals, magical creatures evolve. And just like falcons and eagles descend from a common ancestor, so too does the phoenix have a distant, even rarer cousin. The phoenix is powerful, but much of its power is invested in its ability to prolong its own life, through its purification burnings. Its cousin, though, uses its power to protect the life it has, and take the lives of its enemies. So when Voldemort hit you with that Killing Curse, the thunderbird deep within you unleashed its power, and saved your life. You were always going to be a thunderbird animagus, Harry, but this event "woke it up," for lack of a better way to put it. That is why your scar has never healed—the thunderbird has been clawing to get out ever since. I think that it will heal, once you fully achieve the transformation. There is more to tell you about what it means to be the thunderbird, but I think that should wait until you've had a chance to rest. Maybe over dinner."

Harry reeled, knowing that every word Morris said must be true. It all fit, so incredibly well. For once in his life, Harry had a real explanation of why he was alive, when by all rights, he should be dead. He had a real explanation of why his scar was still an angry red slash on his forehead. He still wanted to hear what Morris meant about there being "more to tell," but he supposed he should process the information he had first anyway.

"Well, say something, kid," Morris asked after a minute of silence. "Anyone home?"

"Oh, um, yeah," Harry stammered, shaking himself out of his stupor. "That's...Morris, that is amazing. I...well, thanks. Um, I think I'm going to go take a bath now, and think about this some more."

Harry made his way up the stairs, barely noticing where he was going, and more or less ignoring his pets when he came back. After a long, hot bath, Harry stumbled to his bed, and managed to set his alarm to go off at noon before collapsing into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Good guessing on the forms—though I don't think any one person got all four, they were all called out at one point or another. It is intentional that all four are animals which are native to North America; the reasons will be pointed out at some point. Unlike many stories in which Harry becomes an animagus, I intend for him to use his ability, rather than having a powerful animagus form be just a benchmark for showing how powerful Harry is becoming. It is going to be a significant and recurring plot element. The thunderbird is a recurring element in several different Native American mythologies, and I chose to use the Menominee as a backdrop because their mythology also has some other elements that are very appropriate to Harry's ongoing greater battle against Voldemort (which will be made clear eventually). Plus, it's a potent symbol for America (which, to Harry, represents independence and freedom from outside influence)—for example, the US Air Force flight demonstration team is called the Thunderbirds. Even better, there is no thunderbird in HP canon, which means that I can just make shit up!

Dark Neko 4000 brought up a good question; would Ron and Hermione be worried at the lack of contact from Harry? The answer is no—in fact, if you reread the beginning of _Goblet of Fire_, it is made clear that Harry's only correspondence is at the very beginning of summer asking for food (as the Dursleys are on a diet), the food he gets in return, the packages he gets on his birthday (July 31st), and the letter on August 23rd from the Weasleys inviting him to their house and the Quidditch World Cup. Since he left to go to Grimmauld with Sirius and Remus, he never had to ask for food, so they won't be suspicious unless he fails to respond to their packages at the end of July. I am basing my timeline of independent events (that is, things that Harry's trip does not change) on the calendar at the HP Lexicon ( /timelines/calendars/calendar_ ), which is an excellent reference for the aspiring HP fanfic writer. Of course, I did not know about this resource until a few chapters into my story, which is why I have the Hogwarts Express returning to London on Sunday, June 19th, rather than the actual date of Saturday, June 18th. Luckily, that difference does not change anything, except perhaps making the pickup at Kings Cross even more inconvenient for Vernon.

I want to point out that I appreciate the comments and constructive criticism I've received (even in those cases where diplomacy was a bit lacking). I think of the reviews and the Author's Notes as a conversation of sorts, allowing the writer and readers to work toward understanding each other more clearly. In fact, I think it's a major strength of this sort of "serial publishing" when compared to traditional methods, which dump books on the readers all at once, and the author never really gets feedback from the audience until it's too late to change anything. I should also point out that the time and energy I spend on Author's Notes (which are much faster and easier to write than the actual story content anyway) does not cut into the time and energy I put into the story content—I cut chapters where I feel that they end naturally (or if I want to leave a cliffhanger), and then I write the A/N. If a chapter seems short, that is a result of the purpose of that chapter being fulfilled in fewer words than normal.


	17. Dirty Deeds and a Thunder-Chief

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Annie walked down the stairs toward Harry's room, after bathing and then napping for a few hours. It was nearing 11 AM, so she figured Harry would probably be game for an early lunch. As she approached his room and raised a hand to knock, she heard a yelp of surprise and a loud thunk from inside. It had sounded like a body hitting the hardwood floor.

"Harry?" she called, concerned—it had been a rather loud thunk, after all. "Harry, are you okay?"

She was relieved to hear what sounded like a grunt in the affirmative, followed by footsteps moving toward the door. The door opened, revealing Harry, clad in a tee-shirt and shorts and rubbing his elbow.

"What happened?" Annie asked.

"Ah, well, I was taking a nap—I'd set my alarm for noon—but I had another animagus dream. It was pretty...intense. Something happened, and it surprised me awake, and I fell out of bed. Gadsden wasn't happy that I woke him up, too, but I gave him a mouse and that pretty much got me back on his good side, even though he thought I was making a huge mistake by not being a snake animagus. He doesn't seem to get that I didn't have a choice in the matter, and I didn't have the heart to tell him that if I did, I wouldn't choose to be a snake," Harry finished, rolling his eyes.

Annie giggled, which gave Harry a warm feeling in his chest and a fluttering in his stomach.

"Well, now that you're up, want to go grab lunch?" Annie asked, satisfied with the explanation; though she remained a bit curious about the details, she would wait until he brought it up himself. "I'm practically starving. Breakfast was big, but it was still the only thing we've eaten in two days."

Harry agreed, and they walked to lunch hand in hand, stopping once for a brief snog-and-grope session in a small nook on the second floor. Once Annie had rehooked her bra and Harry had readjusted his shorts, they continued on downstairs, and spied Andy and Carla leaving the inn; apparently, the two older teens both had part-time jobs, and had to get to work. At "their" booth in the back, Annie and Harry carefully restrained themselves despite their hunger, not wishing to subject the other patrons to another Ron-like display of savagery like they had perpetrated at breakfast. There wasn't any hurry, anyway; after eating, their discussion turned inevitably toward their animagus forms.

After her bath and nap, Annie had realized that Harry had given only the scarcest details about his form during the Jeep ride; in her excitement about her form (and her preoccupation with trying to satisfy her leftover lust by grinding herself against Harry's lap), she had overlooked the fact that Harry had evaded or deflected most of the questions aimed at him, and now she was overwhelmed with curiosity.

Harry saw no need to keep his form from her; his discomfort with the topic earlier had been related to the intensely violent nature of the dream. After all, he had spent most of his second year at Hogwarts being shunned by the students and staff for an aspect of himself that he couldn't help (in that case, his ability to speak to snakes); however, his discussion with Morris had quelled his fears that anyone here would repeat that performance about his violent and destructive animagus form. He related to Annie the contents of his discussion with her father, and she had a similar look of triumph in her eyes.

"I kind of thought—hoped, really—that you might be a thunderbird animagus, ever since my dad told you that he would talk to you about your scar," she said, explaining why she wasn't particularly surprised by his form. "I think this makes you only the second thunderbird animagus who wasn't from a tribe. It is a great responsibility, to have that kind of power."

"Who was the other one?" Harry asked. His lack of knowledge about his own family had given Harry a great interest in any detail about himself that could lead back into the past, and this was already an interesting topic anyway.

"Benjamin Franklin. That story they tell kids about him flying a kite in a storm were true, but they leave out the magical reasons for it; he was trying to understand electricity to try to figure out how to cast lightning spells. The only reason he didn't die when the kite conducted the lightning through him was the fact that it "woke up" his thunderbird, which protected him—that's why my dad thinks that Killing Curse didn't work."

"That's awesome," Harry breathed, thinking that Godric Gryffindor might have some serious competition for the title of Harry's favorite historical figure. Then, he began remembering some of the times he had been in danger at Hogwarts, and realized that perhaps the thunderbird within him had recognized the possessed-by-Voldemort Quirrell as the foe who had tried to strike him down as an infant, and reacted accordingly. That would be a much more reasonable explanation for why his touch had roasted Quirrell—the thunderbird must have been channeling lightning through him. Dumbledore's claim about purity and love driving off the evil wraith had always sounded like a bunch of bullshit to Harry. He suddenly realized that he had been staring off into space and drawing out a pause in the conversation, and hastily continued speaking. "I wonder why they don't have an exhibit about that at the Franklin Institute?"

"I think they normally do, but it's a traveling exhibit, and it's at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C. right now," Annie explained. "My class went on a trip to the Smithsonian at the end of this past year, and we saw it there. The US has a bunch of combined magical and non-magical museums that double as research institutes—the federal government, some of the larger state governments, and a lot of the universities that have magical studies departments partner with them for research projects."

They continued to chat for another few hours, before Harry remembered that he had wanted to call Remus and Sirius, to tell them about his form. The two teens made plans to get dinner at around seven, and with a quick, chaste kiss, went their separate ways for the afternoon. Harry went back up to his room, wrote a short letter to Healer Hopkins about his progress with the potions (his sight was now sharper unaided than it had ever been with his glasses, and he had grown another few inches and put on a few more muscular pounds), and sent Hedwig on her way, figuring that it would take her at least three or four days to make the round trip.

"Sirius, Remus, you there?" he called, holding the mirror. A few moments later, he saw the two wizards come into view, and grinned at the sight of them. "What's up, guys?"

"Not much, Harry," Remus said. "You're not wearing your glasses—I guess that means those potions are working out?"

"Yeah, I can see much better now, and I've grown a bit, too. Did your ambush work?"

"Yes and no," Sirius said with a scowl. "Wormtail sent a few of his old criminal buddies to the village instead of coming himself, the stinking coward. They weren't able to tell us where he is going, but we found out that he already met up with Voldemort's wraith, and is taking him somewhere. We're going to his last known location, in Norway, pretty soon—we were actually just about to leave before you called. He'll have moved on, since his henchmen didn't report back, but maybe we'll be able to pick up his trail again."

"Well, good luck, and be careful," Harry said, not wanting to hear the details of what had happened to the henchmen, fairly certain that their days of henching were permanently finished. "Before you go, let me tell you how the ritual went."

Remus and Sirius listened as Harry described the ritual, though he chose not to go into too much detail about the ritual clothing or the lust-fueled snogging afterward. They were flabbergasted to hear that he would be a thunderbird; magical animagus forms were rare to begin with, and to have such a powerful magical animagus form almost beggared belief. They were even more interested as Harry described Morris's theory about the thunderbird saving him from Voldemort, and his own theory about it cooking Quirrell at the end of his first year. This, of course, led to some serious questions about his dangerous adventures at Hogwarts, which Dumbledore had never explained to Remus during the year he worked there.

"Only you, Harry," Remus said. "Of everyone in the world, this is the sort of thing that would only happen to you."

"Well, this pretty much erases what little credibility Dumbledore had left when it came to your affairs," Sirius said. "You and I will have to have a serious godfatherly discussion when you get back to Britain, about how to avoid letting Dumbledore have any more influence over you. Remus and I had no idea how negligent he was being with your safety. A basilisk, honestly! I love a good prank as much as the next guy, but leaving that kind of thing for a student to deal with is nothing to laugh about."

"I hate to change the subject, but speaking of snakes, I want to introduce you to a new friend of mine," Harry said, suddenly remembering that he hadn't told the two about Gadsden.

"_Come over here, and see my godfather and his friend,"_ Harry hissed._ "They're nice, you'll like them."_

Sirius had never been told that Harry was a Parselmouth, so he was very surprised to hear him speaking in Parseltongue, and was even more surprised when the mirror showed the sinister triangular head of a rattlesnake.

"_Hello, __friends of my master__,"_ Gadsden hissed. _"If you give me mice, we will have no problems."_

Harry laughed, and related what the snake had considered a friendly greeting. Knowing that they had to get going, he bid them a fond farewell, and put away the mirror. He had a few hours before he was meeting Annie for dinner, so he decided to kill some time reading (he would have gone flying, but he was still tired and sore from the previous night).

* * *

The knock at his door a few hours later caught him at the perfect time—he had just finished reading the final page of Crane's _On Combating the Darker Forces of this Earth and Beyond_.

"Coming," he called, opening the door to find Annie standing there. "Dinner?"

"Dinner," she agreed.

The two teens went back downstairs, and Morris joined them for the meal. While they ate, the conversation was casual and light, but as they put down their forks, Harry brought up the subject of the animagus transformation.

"This morning, you mentioned that there was more to being a thunderbird animagus than just the form," Harry began. "Can you tell me what you meant?"

"Sure," Morris answered. "Thunderbird animagi were usually leaders on the battlefield during tribal wars and skirmishes. These "thunder-chiefs," as they were called, were virtually impossible to fight against with bows, and could be brought down by only the most powerful shamans and medicine-men channeling a great amount of energy, and even that was a bit iffy. The thing is, the thunderbird has a responsibility, a duty, to fight the great horned serpents—that was why I was a bit surprised to see that you had a snake companion. Anyway, it's believed that fate will always conspire to throw thunderbirds against their enemies, and the great horned serpent, or Misikinubik, is foremost among them. Sound familiar?"

"Voldemort," Harry said, nodding.

"Right," Morris confirmed. "I doubt he's an animagus—he has these crazy ideas about magical superiority, so he probably wouldn't want to turn into something "less" than a wizard, but he is way into the whole snake motif, and he is another Parselmouth. Anyway, the Misikinubik is mostly just a metaphorical archetype, but there are literal examples as well."

"Yeah, like that basilisk in second year," Harry murmured to himself. At the Oshkosh's stares, he clarified, giving a brief overview of the events of second year, but leaving out just how large the snake had been. He figured that the story was already barely-believable, and telling them that the basilisk had been over sixty feet long would probably be pushing it.

"So," Morris concluded, "it's pretty obvious that there's a running theme between you and snakes, and it'll probably be an ongoing thing, at least until Voldemort and his followers are gone for good. The good news is that lightning works great at killing pretty much anything, so if you find yourself running into any more basilisks, Death Eaters, or Dark Lords, just blast the crap out of them."

"Well, that's good to know," Harry said dryly, and all three had a good laugh before Morris had to go attend to the bar. Harry looked at his watch, noting that it was only 8:30 PM, but due to the events of the last few days, he was already fading.

"I'm pretty tired, so I think I'm going to head back upstairs and get ready for bed," he said to Annie, who pouted, but didn't object; she was probably just as tired.

"Okay," she replied. "I could come by once I've gotten changed, if you want?," she finished shyly.

Harry grinned. "That'd be brilliant. I'll see you in a few minutes, then."

He practically sprinted to his room, and began tidying it up as quickly as he could while he changed into shorts and a tee-shirt (as he had changed into a pair of jeans for dinner). He had just finished brushing his teeth and telling Gadsden to hide and not interrupt, when there was a knock at his door.

Annie stood in his doorway, dressed in her regular sleep attire (which, while being a far cry from the ultra-revealing ritual clothing she had worn the previous night, still left very little to the imagination). In short order, the two teenagers were on the bed, and Harry had shot a silencing charm around the room.

Annie and Harry snogged for several minutes before she straddled him—like she had done in the wigwam—and took off her tank-top, which immediately became the high point of Harry's day. Several minutes after that, both teenagers had their hands in previously-uncharted territory (which certainly made for a new high point of Harry's day), and several minutes later, they were crying out in pleasure and moaning in satisfaction, finally gaining release from the pent-up lust that had held a stranglehold over them since the previous night. Panting and covered in sweat, both teens agreed that _that_ was the high point of their day.

Once they caught their breath, they both realized that they were in need of some freshening up, and it became clear that their raging-hormone-driven lust had been the only thing keeping them from passing out due to fatigue. Now that it had been satiated—at least for the time being—they both concluded that they needed to get to bed and get some sleep. After some cleaning charms (which, slightly-embarrassingly, had to be aimed at each teenagers' shorts), Annie had her top back on.

"Goodnight, thunderbird," she said, kissing Harry deeply and letting her hands stray to his bum. If he hadn't been so tired, it would have been difficult, at that moment, to keep his hands off of her. As it was, though, he was practically dead on his feet, and it was taking some effort just to stand there.

"Goodnight, bigass cat," Harry murmured, sending her on her way with a quick kiss and a squeeze of her bum in return—turnabout was fair play, he reasoned. She giggled at the new nickname, and practically skipped out the door to the stairs. As the door closed behind her, Harry almost couldn't believe what had just happened. It had been so...well, it had been something great, that much was certain.

"Screw it," he muttered. "I can think about it in the morning."

With that final thought, he doused the lights and drifted off to sleep, a satisfied grin on his face.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Ukia Catdragon asked a good question about Quirrell, which I had planned on answering in this chapter anyway. Good to see we're on the same wavelength.

A general note on smut: I have no problem implying things (or even saying outright that something is happening, in nonspecific terms, as I have done in this chapter), but there won't be pornish descriptions or corny euphemisms for body parts in the narration. I mean, yeah, they're teenagers, and they want to (and probably will) have sex—14 is a common age for a first sexual encounter—but I'm not going to go into too much detail, because that would be weird. And kind of gross, actually, because they're not adults. This chapter is sort of a test for the amount of detail I will go into—I think it's enough to get the general idea of how Harry is progressing in his fledgeling relationship (which all involved know won't last past the summer), but still vague enough to be PG-13-ish.


	18. Oh, What a Strange Magic

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Morris Oshkosh woke up before dawn on July 9th, the morning after the new moon. He figured he should prepare a full breakfast, as all four of the teenagers could wake up ravenous as a result of their intense dreams. As he cooked (mostly on autopilot), his mind wandered, and he began to consider his current students.

He had helped scores of students achieve the animagus transformation over the years. This year's crop of students was special, though, as it included both his own daughter and a thunderbird animagus. He was not particularly worried about the former—most predator forms were somewhat more willful than prey forms, and were accordingly more difficult to merge with, but they were common enough to be no real obstacle, and Annie was extremely willful herself—but the latter was certainly troublesome. Magical animagus forms were rare and difficult to begin with, but a thunderbird brought perhaps the greatest possible challenge, even more so than a dragon (at least dragons were lazy—all a thunderbird wanted to do was fight and cause storms). A thunderbird could not be caged, and it could not be reasoned with; in fact, it was a minor miracle that the boy had managed to keep the beast contained within himself for so long. It was likely that his first transformation would be an extremely stormy night, as the thunderbird flew free for the first time; Morris would have to come up with some way of keeping the other students safe from him. Harry had probably spent his whole life subconsciously spending most of his energy and focus on keeping the thunderbird's power under control, once Voldemort's failed Killing Curse had roused the beast's fury.

That level of control, of course, would not last. For the entirety of this lunar cycle, the thunderbird would increasingly dominate the boy's dreams. Morris had resolved to begin instructing the boy in occlumency, to try to keep the intense visions from spiraling out of control. It wouldn't do to have him accidentally electrocute everyone staying at the inn, after all. Plus, it was a helpful discipline anyway, and the thunderbird's inevitably violent reaction (most likely rage and a counterattack) to any mental intrusion—now that Harry had begun the process of merging with the creature's spirit—would greatly reduce the amount of work Harry would need to do to master occlumency. An instruction in the fundamentals would probably suffice; once he had an understanding of how to organize his thoughts, the thunderbird would provide the raw power necessary to shield his mind. Annie and Andy, both having fairly powerful predator forms, would also find occlumency both helpful and somewhat easier than most people; Carla, with a relatively weak-willed (even tameable) prey form would likely find occlumency unnecessary to help with her transformation, and her form would be less helpful at occluding her mind.

A thunderclap startled Morris out of his ruminations; a storm had gathered outside and the unmistakable odor of ozone filled the air, even though the forecast had been clear. He had better get started quickly.

A few minutes later, Harry was awakened by a knock on his door. Shaking off the ringing in his ears and the tingle of electricity, he staggered over to the door and pulled it open, ignoring the fairly substantial static discharge as he grabbed the doorknob.

"Good morning, sir," Harry croaked, seeing Morris standing there with a serious look on his face.

"Sorry to wake you, kiddo, but it was getting a bit stormy outside. Get dressed and come down to breakfast. There's something I'm going to start teaching you all today, and we should start as soon as possible."

Ten minutes later, Morris and the four teens—all still barely awake and still feeling the last few moments of their vivid, primal dreams—began shoveling breakfast onto their plates, while Morris explained the basics of occlumency and why they should learn it.

"I'm not saying it's absolutely necessary, for anyone except Harry," he finished, "but it is generally a very useful skill, and it just so happens that it will help you merge with your form more...peacefully."

"Okay, dad," Annie said after swallowing a bite of eggs. "What do we need to do?"

"At noon, we'll go out to the wigwam," Morris said. "We'll perform another ritual—don't worry, it's much less tiring then the last one, pretty much just a chant and hallucinogenic fire, though you'll all have to wear the ceremonial clothes again." He chuckled as the teens groaned, before continuing. "There are a bunch of different ways to teach occlumency; for example, some people enter their students' minds to help build imaginary walls, while others—sadistic idiots, in my opinion—attack their students' minds with increasingly-powerful legilimency attacks to try to build up resistance. But, the way we're going to do it is going to take advantage of the animal spirit within you to help fight off intrusion. Carla, you might have some trouble with this, since horses aren't very...fighty...but this method will still be possible, and I think it'll be offset by the relative ease with which you'll merge with the horse, compared to the other three with their more willful predator forms."

Harry suddenly couldn't contain his laughter, and the others—including Morris—stared at him like he was mad. Calming himself, he managed to explain.

"I just remembered how back in primary school, they were always telling us that drugs are bad," Harry said, still smiling. "Now it seems like all of my problems keep getting solved by a hit of the good stuff."

Morris grinned, while the others also tittered. "Yeah, you'll find out that these kind of hallucinogenic fires and the occasional herbal paste are roughly our traditional equivalent of potions. They're not necessarily better or worse, but each approach has its benefits and drawbacks, and each can produce effects that the other can't match. Originally, the recipes were all passed down verbally, but that proved unreliable, so eventually they were codified, and there are books available. You should pick up some of them—nobody will know about this kind of magic back in Britain, so you'll always have a bit of an advantage."

"Plus," piped in Carla, who had a part-time job at a combined potions and chemistry lab. "It's always useful to be exposed to another perspective on the same general kind of magic. That's why my lab usually analyzes experimental potions both magically and scientifically."

"Exactly," Morris said. "Anyway, take these; I wrote out the chant phonetically while you were all getting dressed. It'll help you get the sounds down, and we'll fix it to the correct rhythm later—the magic is more mental and less primal than the animagus ritual, so the pronunciation and rhythm won't be as intuitive. Practice while I get started on the breakfast crowd."

The teens spent the next two hours stumbling through the foreign-sounding words. Annie was not quite fluent in the Menominee language, but knew enough about the sound and structure of the words to help guide them in their pronunciation. It was much more difficult and awkward than the animagus ritual chant, and while the previous chant had been a relatively short and simple phrase, repeated over and over, this one was quite long and complex, and had very few repeating elements. They estimated that it would take about ten minutes of chanting, and it had to be done correctly and from memory (as the chant would be performed with eyes closed, so they couldn't read off the sheets). Annie didn't think it would be quite as difficult as the others feared, knowing that once they had put it to the correct rhythm, it would flow much more easily.

By the time they had the chant memorized, they were beginning to grow quite antsy—they were teenagers, and sitting around practicing a chant was nobody's idea of fun. Noticing this, Morris told them to take a break, but return by 11 AM in their ritual clothing to go out to the wigwam and practice getting the rhythm down with the drum accompaniment. As an afterthought, he remembered to tell them to shower before coming down, as physical tidiness would help them delve into their own less-than-primal minds. As though fearing that he would change his mind, they bolted upstairs to find a use for the next three or so hours.

Andy and Carla were not very subtle in how they would be spending free time, making a beeline for Andy's room and beginning to unbutton each others' clothing on the way; Harry noted aloud to Annie that for some reason, Andy had also taken a small jar of honey from the kitchen. Blushing and giggling, Annie took Harry's hand and led him to the fourth floor, where the Oshkoshes had their own quarters. After opening a ward-locked door at the top of the stairs by placing her palm in the center, she pulled him over toward a colorfully-decorated bedroom door, adorned with a finger-painted sign which read "Annie's Room." Annie grinned and pulled Harry through the door.

Harry looked around, taking it in. It was very...Annie. The walls were a warm, cheery goldenrod, and the carpet was an earthy auburn. Posters, drawings, and photographs of the Oshkoshes covered the walls, and a large white teddy bear sat at the foot of the bed. Her desk was covered in half-completed sketches, and a television sat on a top of her dresser, facing her bed. All in all, it seemed quite comfortable and homey—the exact opposite of the quarters Harry had had at Number 4 Privet Drive (though the Smallest Bedroom had still been a vast improvement over the Cupboard Under the Stairs). His 360º tour completed, Harry turned back to Annie, who was standing by the door, looking surprisingly nervous.

"Do you like it?" she asked, biting her lip shyly.

"It's brilliant," Harry declared, making sure she knew that he meant it. "Why are you nervous?"

"Well, it's my room," she answered, as though that made it obvious. Realizing by the look on Harry's face that he still didn't quite get it, she explained. "Everything in here was put here by me. It's a reflection of me...really, you could say it _is_ me. Except maybe the bear; that represents my dad and the inn."

"Oh," Harry said, suddenly wondering if it worked in reverse, if he was somehow a reflection of the Cupboard Under the Stairs or the Smallest Bedroom. Realizing that his overlong pause was drawing out a tension which had somehow appeared, Harry hastened to add, with a crooked grin, "well, like I said, it's brilliant. I guess that means you're brilliant, too."

Beaming, Annie led him to the bed, and in short order, they were doing a passable imitation of Andy and Carla, repeating their experimentation from the previous night with enthusiasm. After a brief rest, during which the two cuddled in a not-chaste-at-all manner, they made good use of their teenaged stamina and continued their exploration.

Finally, covered in sweat, they had worked off all the lust that they could muster at such an early hour, and spent the remainder of the time until 10 AM chatting lightly about things they could do and places they could go over the next month. At 10, Harry went downstairs to his own room to shower and change into his ritual clothing; he killed the remainder of the time until 11 AM chatting with Gadsden and trying to get the snake to understand that what he and Annie had been doing was not "mating," and she wasn't going to be laying any eggs for him anytime soon. He spent more time than he was proud of awkwardly trying to explain human anatomy to the snake, who eventually ended the discussion by declaring that humans were a primitive species with overly-soft skin, weird fur, and entirely too many appendages.

Rolling his eyes, Harry proceeded downstairs to meet the others a bit early, and ran into Annie, who had been on her way to his room to collect him. Once again barely covered in her beaded leather-and-string ceremonial clothes, she proved irresistible to Harry, and he, in his beaded leather loincloth and feather headdress, apparently proved equally appealing to Annie. The two kissed and groped against Harry's door for the next several minutes, until Carla happened by, bouncing distractingly with every step. Blushing but entirely unrepentant, Annie and Harry fixed their clothing, and followed Carla downstairs, where Andy was already waiting and looking quite pleased with himself for having had the foresight to get down first and then have a frontal view of Carla descending the stairs in her tiny attire. Carla simply rolled her eyes and dragged "Chief Winnie the Pooh" (who grinned and licked his lips lasciviously at the nickname) out to the Jeep. It turned out that the drums required for this ritual were larger, and were placed in the front seat, allowing both pairs of teens to double up in the back seats. Harry raised an eyebrow at this, realizing that the bed of the small truck was definitely large enough for the drums, but a twinkle-eyed grin from Morris in the rearview mirror told him that the older man was okay with the teenagers being teenagers.

As Annie had predicted, the addition of the drums made the recitation of the ritual much easier. After several dry runs, it was time for the real deal; as Morris's watch struck noon, he tossed an ingredient bag into the fire and the teens—arrayed around the fire pit in the wigwam—began to chant to his drumbeat. This chant was much more sedate and steady than the intense, wild animagus ritual chant, and did not increase in tempo or volume throughout the ritual. As the bright-blue smoke from the ingredient bag began to take effect, Harry's eyes began to glaze and cloud over, and his mind became strangely quiet. Still chanting, he allowed his calm, relatively-logical consciousness to reach across the jagged gulf in his psyche toward his deeply-seated primal subconscious, which writhed tempestuously.

His goal as an animagus would be to eventually join those jagged edges together and move his body and mind seamlessly across the divide, but the purpose of this current ritual was to simply build understanding of both parts of his own mind. Once he could consciously _know_ what his subconscious _felt_, he would be able to detect any encroachment into his mind, and begin to expel the intruder by focusing his willpower on the trespasser's removal. This, of course, was where the raw power of his primal, strong-willed thunderbird form would come into play; once Harry had detected an intruder into mind, the thunderbird would begin its assault with everything it had.

As the chant drew to a close, Harry found himself quite relaxed; despite the thunderbird's initial rage (it had reacted violently to even Harry's own consciousness breaking into its territory within his subconscious, so he didn't envy an actual intruder), he felt as though his mind had shuffled and straightened itself like a well-organized deck of cards. He seemed to be aware of more of the information filtering through his senses, and he felt more in control of any visceral reactions he might have to the world around him. Finally, at the last drumbeat, he opened his eyes to a world filled with brilliant color, and the last instant of the shadows upon the curved walls of the wigwam as the fire died showed not only four human shadows, but something...more, lurking within each shadow, indistinct in form but obvious to everyone within the wigwam.

With only the light provided by the still-glowing embers, Harry looked across the wigwam to Annie, meeting her dark, glittering eyes and seeing behind them that same vague aura which he had glimpsed beyond and yet within her shadow. Her eyes widened in awe, fear, or some combination of the two at whatever she beheld within the windows to Harry's soul, before each teen—in concert with their own subconscious—sealed away their secrets, leaving, to the outside world, only eyes.

* * *

While a tall Native American taught four teenagers in Wisconsin a series of meditation techniques to help them learn the mental discipline of occlumency, a small, balding man with a pinched face and prominent front teeth scurried back to his Romanian hideout with a frantically-squalling infant in his arms. All of the other ingredients were lined up in the small cottage, which he had taken the hard way from a young muggle couple, though the man had gotten off a shot with a muggle weapon and had injured Wormtail. He supposed he should have ensured the man was dead before starting on the woman like that, but in his defense, the muggle really should not have survived so long after a point-blank _reducto_ to the throat. Anyway, the second spell had finished the job, and a few healing spells and potions had repaired the damage caused by the bullet that had glanced off his forearm. He had kept the muggle woman alive for a few more hours, and then gone off in search of a baby he could use.

In retrospect, he mused, he probably should have just Imperioused the woman and had her tell him if she knew anyone with a suitable child, but she had been sobbing so loudly and annoyingly that his master had told him to just kill her. His master was weak (physically, of course, not magically, never magically, to even think so would be death), and couldn't countenance the irritation, so Wormtail had decapitated her and drained her blood for use in the complex ritual to create a homunculus, then set off to the nearest hospital.

After stealing the child (which had of course gone wrong, and he had needed to Obliviate two nurses and murder a young mother), Wormtail returned to the cottage with the spoils of war. Upon entering the cottage, he stripped the baby and unceremoniously dropped it into the cauldron filled with a boiling mixture of blood, snake venom, and powdered vampire fangs. Ignoring the screams (which soon turned to bubbles), the rat-like man cleared his throat and began to chant, eyes a sharply-glinting crimson, in a dialect not spoken since the pharaohs ruled in ancient Egypt. Wormtail actually had no idea what he was saying (though he assumed it was nothing particularly nice), as his master was currently speaking through him, having moved from the now-dead snake on the floor to his body as soon as he had cleared his throat to begin the chant. As the chant ended, darkness fell upon the cabin—the electrical lights and candles had not gone out; rather, they were simply drowned out by the darkness which pervaded every cubic inch of the small house. As suddenly as it had come, though, the darkness retreated into the cauldron, and a cold, high, _unnatural_ laugh rang out, echoing flatly from within the cauldron.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Wormtail is an interesting character—in most fanfiction, he is a pathetic loser in every sense of the word. He hangs onto his more powerful, more intelligent, more talented friends (the other Marauders, and later the Death Eaters), and consistently retreats at the first sign of danger. On the other hand, he's quite wily, as he seems to have found a viable strategy and exploits it for all it's worth; his cowardice allows him to be an excellent spy (as who would expect the weakling of duplicity?) and "defeat" Sirius Black. Plus, being "dead" for over a decade has allowed him to expand his contacts in the criminal underworld (after all, being "dead" would be a very useful quality for many criminal organizations). In my interpretation of the storyline, he has used that time to build up a small but useful operational slush fund while maintaining his cover as the Weasley pet rat, with which he is throwing "henchmen" (in this case, mercenaries, other low-ranked Death Eaters, and general criminal scum, rather than people with any loyalty to him personally) at Sirius and Remus to try to delay them in his race to first meet, and then secret away his erstwhile master. He may have been the weakest and dullest of the Marauders, but he was still a Marauder, and thus possessed at least some measure of cunning, which he uses quite effectively even in canon, and will probably use more effectively in my story. We may find, as clumsy and seemingly-incompetent as he may be, that he is nevertheless an effective servant for Voldemort, if for no other reason than his life depends upon it.

Also, you all might notice that I did not publish this chapter yesterday; that is because I didn't finish until today. As I suggested when I first began writing, it was only a matter of time before the "chapter per day" schedule became unsustainable, and I've reached that point. After all, I do have other things going on in my life. That said, I will most likely be publishing a chapter every two or three days. On the plus side, they'll probably be more polished (which means less frantic ninja-editing right after I post a chapter and then immediately notice an error). A beta...well, I haven't really looked into it, and to be honest—and I'm not trying to be arrogant here, I'm just stating what I feel to be the truth—I think there are other writers who need a beta more than I do, and there is a finite supply of betas to go around. I know that my writing skills and stylistic choices leave much room for improvement (which is one of the main reasons I am writing fanfiction in the first place), but other than the occasional fatigue-induced typo or omission, my writing is typically at least technically sound, so I'll leave the very limited and valuable time of betas to those authors who can benefit more from their efforts, especially since the addition of a beta would reduce the rate at which I can publish content. Given the toss-up between publishing rate and a marginally-more polished draft, I think I'll land on the side of publishing rate, at least for this story. Perhaps in future stories (and I do have a few planned), I might revisit the issue.

A note for our readers who may not be familiar: "Winnie the Pooh" is a stuffed bear, who is a character in a very famous book series by A.A. Milne, which was later turned into an extremely successful Disney franchise. Pooh is obsessed with honey, so she may be alluding to Andy's bear animagus form and/or some creative use of the jar of honey that Andy had brought from the kitchen for use in their free time. I'll let you all use your imaginations.


	19. Big Bertha and the Birthday Boy

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry quickly fell into a routine in Wisconsin. Each day, he would wake up, eat breakfast with Annie, Andy, and Carla, do whatever chore or odd-job Morris asked him to do (it was usually not very difficult work, and Harry was happy to pitch in, considering Morris's invaluable tutelage), eat lunch with Annie, practice magic, eat dinner with Annie and Morris, and practice occlumency with the whole group, before "saying goodnight" to Annie. His spare time was spent developing his increasingly-intimate relationship with Annie, from which both teens derived immense satisfaction and comfort. It was by far the most pleasant circumstance in which Harry had ever found himself.

That said, he was an active teenage boy, and was therefore particularly vulnerable to the restlessness of youth. Despite how much he was enjoying his time at the Great White Bear Inn, the town of Keshena was quiet and slow, and Harry found himself missing the busy, bustling chaos into which he had immersed himself in Philadelphia. Therefore, he resolved to take another day trip—this time, not into the woods, but rather into Chicago, which had both a very large magical population (second only to New York City) and its own distinct character, which Harry found oddly intriguing. Sirius and Remus agreed, pleased that Harry would be in a relatively controlled area, rather than some dark, forsaken, demon-infested pit...again, that is. It also helped that he was going in a group—Andy, Carla, and Annie had been excited at the idea, and had agreed to accompany him. The fact that this group regularly practiced magic together (Carla was even tutoring him in potions in exchange for him teaching her the Patronus Charm) was icing on the cake; Harry could hardly get into too much trouble with three friends (two of whom were actually of-age adults) watching his back.

Thus, the group found itself portkeying into Chicago on the morning of Saturday, July 23. Their schedule was quite full—a morning comedy show at Second City, an afternoon Chicago Cubs baseball game (Andy was a rabid fan of the perennially unfortunate team, which was apparently the Chudley Cannons of baseball), a spot of shopping, and a late dinner of Chicago-style deep-dish pizza. After their whirlwind tour of the city—which had gone off almost without a hitch, save for a brief confrontation with a slightly-grabby hag—the fearsome foursome portkeyed back to the inn, held a brief occlumency practice session, and tottered off to bed, teenage stamina defeated by their action-packed day. Harry mused as he slid into bed that since nothing bad had happened on his trip, he was certainly going to collect soon, with interest; he was too much of a trouble magnet for any other outcome. With an amused snort at his own fatalism, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

The next day, Harry had only some simple repair work to do, which took a few swishes of his wand and muttered repairing charms, and then he was suddenly left with a great deal of free time. He would have gone to hang out with Annie, except that she and Carla had gone on a shopping trip, and Andy was called in to cover a co-worker's shift. With little else to do, he went back to Morris to ask if anything else needed to be done.

"Nah, kid, we're all good for now," Morris replied. "It's a slow day today—why don't we work on some channeling magic?"

This got Harry's attention, and he readily agreed; the elemental channeling magics favored by Native Americans and some African schools of magic could be quite powerful, though they sometimes lacked the finesse of wanded spells, did not require any wand (which meant he would never truly be disarmed), and were rarely used in Europe—another substantial advantage if he could bring that knowledge back home. The group had been working on channeling every once in a while; Carla and Andy seemed to have little natural ability at channeling, for all their skill at potions and arithmancy, respectively, and while Annie was the most experienced of the four, Harry's talent far outstripped hers. Perhaps it was a side effect of his thunderbird animagus form, as he seemed to have a great affinity for air and lightning.

Morris proceeded to instruct Harry in several techniques for drawing power directly out of the environment, and then focusing it to follow his will. Occlumency was obviously a great help in this type of magic, as it allowed his conscious mind more access to the subtle interactions of the elements in nature which his subconscious would normally filter out. Harry and Morris spent several hours outside, blasting boulders with lightning, whipping up small tornadoes, calling up pillars of stone and earth, and roasting logs and stumps with fireballs. Harry, who had always learned best with this type of hands-on instruction, was rapidly approaching adult-level proficiency, and would probably reach that point by the end of the summer. This type of magic had no set incantations or wand movements (there being no wand involved at all), and depended entirely on the wizard's ability to _will_ the elements to follow his intentions...and Harry had always possessed a great deal of willpower.

Suddenly, it was time for lunch (and a late lunch, at that), and Harry realized that he was barely tired at all. Morris explained that since most of the energy was being taken from the environment, with Harry only providing focus and direction, it was barely tiring at all—if he had attempted to perform spells of that magnitude for that long, he would have be generating the magical energy required, and he would have passed out from exhaustion hours ago. This was another reason Harry was able to channel elements so well; while he was quite powerful for his age, he was still far less powerful than an adult wizard, but this magic did not depend on a wizard's personal magic to power spells. In fact, there was no significant difference in power between Harry and Morris's spells, except that Morris's manipulations of earth were stronger, while Harry's ability to manipulate lightning and wind actually exceeded that of his instructor.

After lunch, Harry was on his own again, as Morris had some inn-related business. He considered calling Sirius and Remus, but then remembered that the full moon had been the night before last, so both men were probably still exhausted. Plus, he realized, they were probably busy trying to make up whatever ground they had lost as a result of Moony's "furry little problem"—while they had been running around in the woods howling at the moon, Wormtail had undoubtedly made even more progress. Not wanting to waste such a great chance to practice (as none of his normal distractions—however enjoyable—were present), Harry apparated back outside. He spent about four more hours throwing spells around, sometimes channeling lightning or fire with his non-wand hand while casting curses through his wand, all the while apparating all over the place. Tired and hungry, but quite pleased with the excellent results he was seeing from his constant practice, Harry went in for an early dinner, showered, and settled into the chair in his room to read and chat with Gadsden, who was currently digesting a rabbit (the outline of which was slightly visible halfway down his long body).

His perusal of DuMorne's definitive (and extremely fascinating) _Fundamentals of Thaumaturgy and Evocation_ was interrupted by a familiar quadruple knock on his door. Gadsden, knowing the drill by now, slithered off to...wherever it was that he slithered off to...and Harry opened his door to find—as expected—Annie, who had apparently just returned from her shopping trip.

"Hey, invisible man," she said, smiling coyly.

"Hey, bigass cat," Harry replied. "What's with the coat? You must be melting in that thing."

Annie was standing in his doorway in a long black leather coat (which Harry figured was the stylish female version of a trench coat) and black heels. Her coat wasn't buttoned, but was cinched tight by the belt strap. It accentuated her body quite well, especially considering how non-revealing it was, and as his eyes made their way back up to face, Harry noticed a hungry look in her dark eyes. He suspected there was a similar look in his.

"I was planning on doing this for your birthday," she said. "But once I started thinking about it, I realized that I couldn't wait that long."

"What do you—oh," Harry started, before his throat closed off and his jaw hung down as he watched her untie her belt strap and let the coat fall to the floor. It instantly became quite clear what she had bought on her shopping trip, as she closed the door behind her and sashayed toward Harry, who could not take his eyes off her black lacy...underthings. He had seen her in—and out of, for that matter—skimpier outfits (the ceremonial clothing came to mind), but this was different, somehow. Maybe it was her walk, or the set of her jaw, or the slightly translucent nature of the lace.

"You like?" she purred, using her index finger to close Harry's jaw before kissing him. Four hands wandered for a few moments, and then it hit Harry exactly what she was talking about.

"You mean..."

"Yeah," Annie confirmed, a slight tremor in her voice betraying a hint of nervousness that was far surpassed by the pressing desire she displayed in her pose. "That."

* * *

Wormtail winced as a few drops of Nagini's venom missed the jar, knowing that his master would be displeased at the waste of even that tiny amount of the vital fluid. The potion to maintain the integrity of his master's diminutive homunculus body required absolute precision at every stage of ingredient preparation and brewing. The unicorn blood, thankfully, was not very difficult to obtain—despite their speed and agility, a barrage of Killing Curses would usually ensure at least one hit, and a single unicorn could provide enough blood for dozens of doses. The blood of a virgin, however, was more difficult to come by, and usually required an interrogation with veritaserum to be certain; even then, only seven drops could be used from any one person, which meant that each dose required a new virgin. The bodies were really beginning to pile up.

"Too bad old Bertha was always such a tramp," he muttered. "She could have done double duty."

Bertha Jorkins had been a veritable goldmine—despite her general idiocy, she was an inveterate gossip, with a particular eye for useful information. After bumping into her in Albania almost a month ago, her interrogation yielded three major pieces of information. First, that the Triwizard Tournament would be held at Hogwarts this year. Second, that Dumbledore had convinced Alastor Moody to come out of retirement and teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Third, and most vitally, that the vaunted Bartemius Crouch was actually keeping his son—a loyal and capable Death Eater thought long dead in Azkaban—captive under the Imperious Curse. His master, in his brilliance, had come up with a plot which would see his return, greater and more terrible than he had ever been.

Of course, the interrogation had shattered Bertha's mind, due to the necessity of breaking the powerful memory charm that Crouch had placed on her to keep his secret safe. Wormtail had killed her afterward, and used her body to make his very first Inferi. After depositing her in what the other Marauders would later dub "Zombieville," he had fled Albania with his master and hired several thugs to let slip some information that would lead Sirius and Remus into the Inferi-filled trap.

"Wormtail," hissed a high, cold voice in the darkness. "Finish this dose, and then prepare to leave. And if you spill another drop of Nagini's venom, you will find yourself licking it off the floor."

"Where are we going, my lord?" Wormtail asked, shaking in fear (which scared him even more, as the shaking threatened to spill more venom).

"Why, Peter," Voldemort said, laughing mirthlessly. "We're going home."

* * *

The last day of July had all the makings of the best birthday of Harry Potter's life. He awoke just before 8 AM with the gentle rumbling of distant thunder fading from his ears and tousled dark hair beneath his chin. Harry breathed the warm, earthy scent of whatever shampoo Annie used on her hair, and listened to her contented purring (which was _literal__ly_ purring, as she was merging consciousnesses with a mountain lion). He didn't move, not wanting to wake her up and also not wanting to abandon the comfortable spooning position or the warm breast beneath his right hand. The previous night had been the first time she had spent the entire night in his room; he instantly concluded that waking up next to a naked woman was very high on his "best things in the world" list.

It was not to last, though. Annie, perhaps somehow sensing that Harry had awoken, began to stir, and as she did, more of Harry awoke. She noticed this immediately, turning over and facing him with a Cheshire cat grin.

"Good morning, invisible man," she whispered, straddling him. "And happy birthday, Harry."

Harry and Annie strolled down into the dining area a little after 10 AM, where several owls waited impatiently at their booth, atop a small mound of gifts. Hedwig was perched right above where Harry sat, and hooted pleasantly at him before going back to glowering at the other owls.

Morris, Andy, and Carla all came over to wish him a happy birthday, and the five chatted amiably as they ate breakfast.

"So what's on the agenda today?" Harry asked Morris.

"I dunno, kiddo, it's _your_ birthday," Morris said with a smile.

"No, I mean what do you need me to get done today?" Harry clarified.

"Ah, did you miss the part about it being your birthday, Harry?" Andy asked. "I'm pretty sure you've got the day off."

"Really?" Harry asked Morris excitedly. After Morris nodded quickly in confirmation, Harry's serene smile broke into a wide grin. "Thanks so much, Morris!"

Luckily, Harry was distracted by a waitress refilling his plate with several more pancakes, as the other four exchanged a significant look. They had all noticed—and had brief conversations together about—details of Harry's life that painted a very troubling picture. For example, he had always been surprised that Morris gave him so little work to do, he was always a little too grateful whenever anyone did anything for him, and now expecting to work on his birthday...Annie had even heard a much-abridged tale of his summer before coming to Wisconsin in which Harry had referred to Sirius and Remus "rescuing" him from the Dursleys. Morris gave a slight shake of the head; in a previous meeting, it had been decided that there would be a frank discussion with Harry at the end of the summer.

"Um, Harry, I'm pretty sure there's a big pile of gifts that literally have your name on them," Annie pointed out impatiently, practically bouncing in her seat with anticipation. Harry chuckled and began to unwrap the packages.

Sirius and Remus had sent ahead a box containing his parents' journals and diaries. Harry quickly moved on to avoid choking up in front of the others, but he knew it was inevitable once he sat down to read them. Harry's gifts from Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid were predictable—all three knew how the Dursleys treated him, so all three sent large cakes, which Harry immediately offered to share with his companions. This, of course, drew another shared look between the other four—if his friends knew, as the comments in their cards implied, why didn't they do anything?—while Harry unwrapped his gift from Carla, a black leather bound copy of all of her potions notes, up to and including her current research. He thanked her profusely (it was, after all, extremely thoughtful), and opened Andy's gift, which showed that the duo (who were now dating quite seriously) had collaborated, as it turned out to be a brown leather bound copy of all of his runes and arithmancy notes. Andy had spent considerable time teaching Harry the basics of both subjects, as he intended to enroll in arithmancy and self-study runes, and Harry was again quite grateful.

Morris gave Harry a three-volume set of Benjamin Franklin's journals, explaining that there was a great deal of information about thunderbird animagus forms, along with chapters about Franklin's many magical and non-magical experiments and inventions. Annie was the only one who deviated from the academic theme, giving Harry a picture frame charmed to cycle between a few dozen magical photographs. She had pre-loaded it with several photographs of the five of them, as well as several showing just her and Harry.

"Thank you all so much," Harry said hoarsely, his eyes shining. "This...this is the best birthday I've ever had."

The quintet broke up for the rest of the day; Morris had to tend to the kitchen, as the cook had called out sick, Andy and Carla were going to meet Carla's parents, and Annie and Harry soon found themselves walking quietly by the bank of the Wolf River.

"I love my present, you know," Harry said, breaking the companionable silence that had stretched for nearly thirty minutes.

"I'm glad. There's a hidden feature that Carla helped me add," she said, her eyes suddenly twinkling with mischief. "You just tap the frame with your wand and say my nickname, and it'll switch to the...special pictures. I even got Carla in a few."

"Special like..."

She grinned, and began stripping off her clothes and running toward the shallow river. "See you in the water, invisible man!"

Harry looked up to the sky, silently thanking whatever gods might be listening. This really was the best birthday of his life.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Finally, I'm able to timeskip! I was pretty much waiting until I had addressed occlumency; I figured that once I had established that Harry was beginning his study of occlumency (which seems like a discipline that would greatly assist with the animagus transformation process I've described, so I imagine that teaching occlumency to prospective animagi would be pretty standard), I could move the plot forward. After all, this story isn't about How Harry Spent Summer Vacation; rather, it is about how Harry starts living his life on his own terms (which just so happens to begin on his summer vacation).

Volde-visions: Since I've already decided to deHorcruxify and deHallow this story, I have to address Harry's visions. In canon, Harry didn't have a vision until Frank Bryce's murder, which takes place on the night of August 22. By then, Harry will have completed the month-long animagus transformation process, as described in chapter 2 of this story, and will have spent about a month and a half practicing occlumency (taught by a teacher who isn't using the lessons solely as an opportunity to abuse him) with the aid of a particularly territorial subconscious. Bottom line: The mental connection between Harry and Voldemort will, for the time being, remain closed for business. Side note: I always thought it was strange that canon-Harry didn't get a vision of Voldemort returning to his body—it must have been a moment of great triumph for Voldemort, so by the logic followed later in canon, Harry should have gotten some Volde-vibes right then. In this story, even though Harry has not mastered occlumency yet when this occurs (per chapter 18), he has a raging, unmerged thunderbird spirit in his subconscious—even if Harry did feel any of Tom's emotions, they were lost in the tempest.

Final note: I'm going to be traveling for work early next week, so I won't be able to write for a few days. Therefore, I'm going to try to put out two more chapters this weekend. Whether that _actually_ happens...I guess that depends on whether I attend any beer week events this weekend. We'll see.


	20. The Sound of Thunder

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

That night, after sending off a few owls thanking Hermione, Ron, and Hagrid for their gifts, Harry had a short conversation with Remus and Sirius, which was interrupted by the arrival of an owl from Jacob Crane. It bore a copy of the section on the Jersey Devil, to be added to chapter 13 of the new edition of _On Combating the Darker Forces of this Earth __and Beyond,_ which showed him in quite a favorable light, included the photograph of him standing victorious over the fallen demon, and mentioned that the information he had provided had allowed several successful hunts of the foul creatures. Hopefully, they would be eradicated before too much monger, Harry thought savagely, as he penned a quick response approving the text with only a few minor changes. As the owl winged away into the darkness, his attention was diverted by Annie's familiar quadruple knock, and the remaining hours of Harry's birthday passed in a singularly gratifying fashion.

The week following Harry's birthday passed quickly. Aside from a brief trip to the literal ghost town of Perote, Wisconsin (where Harry and Annie chatted with some ghosts and explored for a few hours), Harry continued in his previous routine—some light chores, practicing magic, and spending time with Annie. Their trysts had become more frequent and more intense, as the knowledge that Harry's time in Wisconsin was ending soon drove them to make the most of their remaining days together. Though they had avoided becoming overly emotionally-attached, the fact remained that this was the closest relationship that either had ever had, and it unfortunately had a built-in expiration date that was rapidly approaching.

Finally, it was Sunday, August 7. One full lunar cycle had passed since the group had performed the animagus ritual, and the new moon was tonight. After waking from a particularly intense dream—despite his growing skill at occlumency, he had barely contained the thunderbird, which must have known that freedom was nigh—Harry spent the day fulfilling all of his primal needs. Morris had told the teens that their control over their forms—at least at the beginning of the night—would be tenuous, so it would be important, especially for the predators, to be fully satiated lest they try to eat each other. The four prospective animagi took this as approval to gorge themselves on food and ravish each other all day, so aside from hitting the kitchens extra hard and wearing out the springs in their mattresses, little got done that day.

As sunset approached that evening, the teens and Morris stood in a loose circle near the treeline. The teens—having been told that they probably wouldn't be able to transform their clothes on their first try—had all worn their ritual clothing, as it was loose and wouldn't tangle them up as they transformed. They all watched, spellbound, as the sun lowered. Just before it disappeared entirely, Morris gave a few last-minute pointers, and wished them all good luck.

"Remember, kids," he said, "try not to eat each other. And Harry, as soon as you transform, try to get as far away from here—or anywhere else that's populated—as you can, because you'll be bringing a huge storm with you."

With that, Morris promptly transformed into a massive white bear. Harry almost slapped himself on the forehead; he had been wondering what Morris's form was, but this should have been obvious. The bear stood guard, to make sure that the first moments of their transformation didn't overwhelm them and lead them to attack each other. Across the circle, Annie and Carla stripped off their clothes entirely, perhaps having decided to preserve the ritual clothes, or just to give the boys a show—either way, Harry and Andy definitely appreciated it. Then, the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, and the night of the new moon was upon them.

Carla was the first to transform. Her form blurred, and suddenly a large bay horse stood where she had been, before moving off at a gallop. Its muscles rippled beneath its coat, and its very Carla-like black mane flowed in the wind as it ran back towards the clear plain between the trees and the town.

Andy was next. His body seemed to bulge, and then a black bear stood on its hind legs in his place. After loosing a seemingly-gleeful roar, it dropped down on all fours and barreled through the underbrush, making its way into the forest with all the subtlety of a cannonball.

Annie's transformation was instant. One moment she stood, loosely covering her breasts with her hands (as comfortable as she had become with Harry, her father _was_ standing right there) and giving Harry a saucy wink, and the next moment, a huge tawny mountain lion was sitting on its haunches and licking its paws. Harry only had enough time to form one thought ("that really is a bigass cat") before it sprang off into the trees, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

"Are you sure you don't want to get out of here before I transform?" Harry said, turning to face the bear-that-was-Morris. "Franklin's journals said the first transformation was...wild."

Harry had read ahead in the journals that Morris had given him for his birthday, to see what Ben Franklin had had to say about being a thunderbird animagus. Franklin had found his hearing and eyesight vastly improved after completing the transformation (he only wore his famous bifocals for show), and his strength, speed, stamina, and channeling abilities—especially with lightning and air—had also noticeably increased. Perhaps most useful was the unique kind of apparition that the form provided—while a phoenix could apparate in a whooshing blaze of fire, the thunderbird could do so with a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning. However, Franklin cautioned that the first transformation had been extremely violent, and he had barely maintained control at any point during the night. Harry was afraid that he'd transform and electrocute Morris; the thunderbird saw all creatures as prey, and a large predator like Morris's bear would provide more of a challenge...and therefore, more of an incentive for the thunderbird to fight.

Morris-the-bear responded with a vague "ruff" and trundled off into the treeline. He didn't go any farther into the woods, though—apparently, he planned to watch from there.

Harry closed his eyes. He had been restraining the thunderbird from coming out for several minutes now, and even though he had actually contained it since he was an infant, it had taken a supreme effort to keep himself from transforming as soon as the sun had gone down. Now, though, he released that control, and as he opened his eyes, everything was clearer and sharper. With a scream that shook the ground, Harry disappeared into the clouds in a bolt of lightning, followed immediately by a huge thunderclap. The thunderbird was free.

Harry would remember every moment of the next several hours for the rest of his life, later likening it to trying to rodeo a rocket—after all, the thunderbird had been caged for most of his life, and now it was free. At the beginning, the thunderbird was calling the shots, and Harry was mostly along for the ride, clinging on for dear life. Soon, though, the countless hours of occlumency and the power of the ritual performed a month ago began to complete the merging between the two warring parts of Harry's mind, and he _became_ the thunderbird. He had always felt comfortable in the air, reveling in the freedom that his broom gave him, but as much as he loved flying on his broom, it simply did not compare to flying as a thunderbird. When the air currents weren't favorable, he _made_ them favorable. When he wanted to go higher, he would disappear into lightning and thunder, and reappear higher. Harry rocketed across the skies of North America at the head of a vast thunderstorm, screaming out in triumph and daring anyone and everyone to be foolish enough to challenge his dominance. The sky belonged to Harry, and he loved every second of it.

As dawn approached, Harry took a moment to figure out where he was, and realized with a shock that he was about ten thousand feet above Lake Superior. Knowing that he didn't have long before he was expected to be back (he and Annie had planned to meet at dawn in "their spot"), he disappeared with a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, and reappeared about a thousand feet above the Great White Bear Inn. From there, it was a short, leisurely flight to the Wolf River, where he got a look at his own reflection for the first time.

His animagus form looked much like a giant black eagle, with a wingspan of at least a dozen feet. The details, though, were telling; his eyes shone with the iridescent glow of lightning, and each of his feathers had similarly-shiny lightning bolt patterns. The talons and beak were long, razor-sharp, and hooked cruelly—Harry could tell that even without the lightning, his form would be a fierce predator.

His sharp eyes picked out the other four animagi, who were scattered around the area. Morris was wrestling playfully with Andy (bear-to-bear), Carla was trotting by a pond about a mile away, and Annie was leaping between tree branches and boulders, and making her way toward their spot. Harry zeroed in on her, and met her there just as the sun began to rise.

Annie picked herself up off the ground, standing on human feet for the first time in hours, and looked around for Harry. A soft rustling of feathers caught her attention, and she looked up into the branches of the massive oak tree to see a huge bird weighing down a thick limb. Harry glided down, flared his wings, and landed in front of her. She was shocked at how large it was; standing on its feet, the bird's head reached her shoulders. As she petted the soft feathers on its head, it suddenly became soft black hair, and Harry stood before her. Both teens were completely naked (Harry's loincloth and headdress hadn't survived the transformation, likely being roasted to ashes by the first lightning bolt as he had rocketed into the sky), and though both were bone-tired, the excitement of their first transformation combined with their own inclinations at the moment found them tumbling down onto the soft grass, entwined in passion.

They made no effort to be quiet, and a few moments after they finished, Carla's wry voice caught their attention. At any other time, they would have been startled apart, but now they were too tired to do more than crane their heads around to look at their friend.

"Now I'm jealous," she fake-pouted, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "Where the hell is Andy when I need him?"

"Last I saw, he was about a half-mile east, wrestling with Morris," Harry said with a grin, still panting from his exertion with Annie. Carla kept up the fake-pout act, putting her hands on her hips and giving her heel a little stomp. The motion caused her breasts to shake tantalizingly, and Annie chuckled from her position on top of Harry.

"Come on, Carla," Annie said with a laugh. "You're gonna give Harry here a heart attack if you keep jigglin' around like that."

They all laughed, and whatever awkwardness that had remained in the situation was defused in the face of good humor and friendship. They gathered themselves up, and Carla apparated back to the inn. Harry had never side-along apparated anyone, so he couldn't take Annie back; however, in a rare flash of brilliance the previous afternoon, Harry had had the foresight to put his invisibility cloak and his broom in a small bag in the oak tree's branches, so they simply flew back to the inn, picking up Annie's and Carla's discarded clothing on the way.

Wednesday morning, two days later, was bittersweet. Carla and Andy had left the previous night, after a tear-filled goodbye dinner, and Harry had just woken up in Annie's bed for the last time. He had already packed all of his things, and would be returning to Philadelphia right after breakfast. After Harry and Annie showered (together—they didn't want to pass up this one last opportunity to be together) and ate a subdued breakfast, Harry thanked Morris for all he had done for him, and walked out the front door of the inn.

"Wait!" Annie called, just as he was about to activate his portkey back to Philadelphia. Harry turned around, and was met with a crushing hug. "Just...one more kiss, to say goodbye."

After they broke apart, both teens had tears running down their cheeks. "Goodbye, invisible man," Annie whispered, finally letting go of him.

Harry took one last look around. In the month he had been here, the tiny town of Keshena, Wisconsin had become almost as much of a home to him as Hogwarts. Andy, Carla, Morris, and especially Annie had so completely dominated his focus for that month that he almost couldn't conceive of a world in which he had not met them—and if he could, it certainly wasn't a world in which he'd want to live.

"Goodbye, Annie," Harry responded hoarsely, and disappeared into thin air.

* * *

Harry arrived back at 12th and Market with a soreness in his chest and a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, neither of which had anything to do with the portkey. Even though both teens had known that this moment had been coming, that didn't stop it from hurting—for Harry, who had never even truly understood that such a connection was possible, it felt like he was suddenly missing a part of himself. Trudging the suddenly interminable three blocks to the Alexander Inn, he mused that he might always feel like he had left something of himself back at the Great White Bear Inn; he would definitely never forget the time he had spent there. At least there was always post; plus, there was no reason why he and Annie should not meet sometime in the future.

Harry, in no mood to be sociable, mostly just grunted at the innkeeper—whose name he had never bothered to remember, having had so little contact with him compared to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron or Morris at the Great White Bear Inn—and made his way to his new room on the second floor. He wondered when he would stop comparing things to the Bear, as he glanced around at his accommodations with distaste. Not that it was unsuitable; in fact, the room was objectively nicer and larger than room 301 had been. However, at this inn, there was no chance of hearing Annie's quadruple knock on the door and opening it to see her sly grin and glinting eyes.

Gadsden, of course, was little help; as Harry tried to explain how he was feeling, the snake's advice was mostly of the "find another mate, and pick me up a mouse on the way" variety. Hedwig gave only a low, mournful hoot and rubbed his shoulder with her head. At least his bird understood.

Harry sighed, and unpacked his books. There were several that he wanted to read before he got back to Hogwarts, and he wasn't picking up lessons with Jacob Crane at the Franklin Institute until the next morning. He might as well get a start on reading. It wasn't as though there was a beautiful girl waiting outside his door.

* * *

"Well, that's pretty much it," Remus observed matter-of-factly, wiping a now-dead Death Eater's blood off his hands. "We are officially out of leads."

"Fuck," Sirius spat, summing up with one word all of his feelings on the subject. He punctuated his statement by kicking another Death Eater in the face and breaking his nose. It didn't do much, as the man was already dead, but it did make Sirius feel a little bit better.

"Maybe they went back to Britain," the werewolf suggested, nodding in agreement with Sirius's frustration. "We both know that the majority of Voldemort's followers were British, and the most useful ones, who bankrolled his operations, were all rich enough to buy pardons from Fudge after the war."

"Number 12, then?" Sirius asked with a sigh. "We can at least set Kreacher to cleaning up that shithole. Maybe we can find another house-elf, one who isn't a total psychopath, to take his place."

"Actually, Padfoot," Remus said thoughtfully, "Our little Harry might have an inside line on just such an elf. Remember what he was saying about the whole basilisk affair?"

"Ah, right. We'll have to bring it up the next time we talk to him. And that's as good a place to start as any. We'll have to start looking into Lucius buggering Malfoy."

* * *

"Good, Harry!" Jacob called, as Harry dodged a stunner and returned two of his own, knocking out one of his two opponents. "Don't be afraid to deflect an enemy's curse back at them, either."

Harry had decided to bury the pain of his separation from Annie by throwing himself into training. In early July, Jacob Crane had offered Harry a place in the training rotation of his team, which operated under a division of the FBI focused on hunting down magical criminals and dark creatures. This same team had gone on several hunts for Jersey Devils, and the intelligence Harry had brought them had been vital to their success. Therefore, the team members were all perfectly willing to drill Harry, especially since teaching him provided an opportunity for them to rehash the fundamentals themselves. To Harry, this experience was invaluable; if there was one thing he had learned in his three years as a wizard, it was that the world was a dangerous place, especially if your name is Harry Potter. This sort of practical combat training might very well save his life someday, and he relished the opportunity to test his mettle against trained professionals.

He was also noticing that either the nutritional potions he had taken in July or the changes wrought by the animagus transformation had significantly impacted both his physical and magical prowess. His senses were sharper, his reflexes were faster, his muscles were stronger and more efficient, and he had more magical power to throw around than pretty much anyone his age. After a week and a half, he was already capable of holding his own against some of the newer team members, all of whom were a decade older than him. It helped that he wasn't easily intimidated; giant basilisks and Jersey Devils had a way of making most wizards seem tame by comparison.

Jacob did have to ennervate Harry this time, though, as his opponent returned fire with a wide-area stunner that Harry only partially parried. Afterward, they broke up and showered, then gathered again for dinner.

"So Harry," Jacob said between bites of his burger, "Tomorrow's the day, huh?"

"Yeah," Harry responded. "I'm portkeying out of Philly International at 9 AM. I've got to be back in England by 5 PM local, but I'd like to take care of some stuff before that."

Thanks to a cleverly-cast mail-diversion ward, Sirius and Remus had intercepted an owl from Ron about the Quidditch World Cup, and had woken Harry up at about 4 AM to tell him that he needed to be back in Surrey the next day, or else the jig would be up. Harry had dictated a response to them, so it would sound authentic, and held up samples of his handwriting and his signature to the mirror so that Remus and Sirius could make the letter look as though Harry had written it. Remus had paid an impromptu visit to the Dursleys to go over their cover story; in case anyone asked, Harry had been grounded and confined to his room all summer. There, he had found the "official" invitation letter from Molly Weasley, and made sure that Harry knew what to expect when the Weasleys came calling.

Harry was a little bit sad that he wouldn't get to see Sirius again before going back to Hogwarts, but they had all agreed that mirror calls would be sufficient for the time being.

"Well," Jacob said, interrupting Harry's mental trip-planning. "You should probably get back to your room at the inn and grab some shuteye. I know I'm always tired after a long-distance portkey."

"Yeah, maybe I will," Harry murmured noncommittally. In reality, he planned to go flying one last time—it was a safe bet that once he got to England, he wouldn't be able to really let loose, so he wanted one last chance to go full-thunderstorm-crazy. Plus, that would help tire him out for tomorrow, which would otherwise be a short day due to the time difference, so his sleep schedule might have a chance at staying intact.

After leaving the Institute's cafeteria and bidding a fond farewell to Jacob (who promised to send a signed copy of the newest edition of his book for Christmas), Harry did just as he had planned, tearing through the skies from Philadelphia down to northern Florida and then back again, spearheading an epic thunderstorm the whole time. He didn't end up apparating back into his room at the Alexander Inn until well past 1 AM, and simply passed out as soon as he staggered to his bed.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Ah, the long-awaited first transformation! And parting is such sweet sorrow.

I'm glossing over the bits about Harry's time with Jacob, in the same fashion as I glossed over the details he learned from reading books and what tips and spells Sirius and Remus taught him. These details aren't important; rather, the only important thing is to note that he is taking an active interest in self-improvement, rather than having to be dragged kicking and screaming by Hermione. This Harry Potter is, as a result of his slight rebellion against Dumbledore, becoming less passive.

I also just noticed something that really threw me off—the actual calendar differs by a few days from the Harry Potter calendar. For example, September 1 in 1994 was in fact a Thursday, but if you go by the Harry Potter calendar, it's a Monday. To reconcile the dates—which won't be a problem until the term begins, as the time in Philadelphia and back in Britain can be fudged via timeskip and vagueness—I'll pick up August 23 on the Harry Potter calendar. No dates really matter until August 23, which IRL was a Tuesday but in HP-verse was a Saturday—this is the date on which Harry receives the invitation to the Burrow and the World Cup from the Weasleys.

As HufflepuffGleek helpfully pointed out, Milwaukee is actually in Wisconsin, not Minnesota, so I'll pop back to chapter 15 and edit that, so that Andy comes from a real place.

Andy and Carla didn't get much screen time—in fact, I think each of them only got one or two lines of dialogue—but Harry became quite close with them, and will probably continue to correspond with them, though probably not to the same extent as he will with Annie.


	21. Who Says You Can't Go Back?

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The portkey departure terminal Philadelphia International Airport was not very busy, since it was a Saturday morning, so Harry didn't have to wait long before it was his turn.

"Would it be possible to set my portkey for Surrey?" he asked the attendant. "I'd rather not have to arrange transportation from Heathrow."

"Sure, as long as you've never been convicted of a felony in the United Kingdom and you're a British citizen, you can bypass customs there. Ah, here we go. Nothing but a warning about underage magic, so yeah, that's possible. It's an extra galleon, though."

"That's fine with me," Harry said, relieved. "It's worth the convenience." He didn't add that he was actually doing it for secrecy—if he ended up at a check-in desk staffed by a wizard, it would be a matter of hours or even minutes before Dumbledore or the Daily Prophet got a hold of the information, and then he'd inevitably be subjected to an interrogation about where he had been all summer.

His portkey took him to the Surrey bus station, and after regaining his equilibrium, he apparated to the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive, where Remus and a large black dog were waiting to greet him.

After a brief explanation of the plan (namely, that the Weasleys would be around at 5 PM—less than two hours from when he had arrived at Number 4—to pick him up), Remus gave Harry a rundown on their last few days.

"And how is Dobby working out?" Harry asked. Almost two weeks ago, he had told Remus and Sirius about the crazed elf, and they had immediately called upon Dobby to take over as the head elf for Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"He's...excitable," Remus said, "but he's a huge upgrade from Kreacher. We've got Kreacher contained to maintaining the cellars, while Dobby does pretty much everything else. He was even able to dispell the Permanent Sticking Charm on Walburga's portrait, and we let Kreacher take that to whatever hole he sleeps in."

"Good," Harry said. "It wouldn't do for Dobby to have ended up working for another family like the Malfoys. He was abused there, badly."

"Too right—we'll make sure to treat him better," Remus assured Harry. "Oh, I just remembered, did you ever get your school supplies?"

"Yeah, I got my letter a few weeks ago, and owl-ordered everything. I already sent McGonagall notice that I'm taking Arithmancy instead of Divination. I got the Runes book, too, so I can study that in my free time."

The trio descended to remind the Dursleys about the plan—if asked, they were to assert that Harry had been mostly confined to his room all summer, except for meals, chores, the restroom, and a few errands of his own ("freakish" and otherwise). Once the Dursleys were sorted out, Remus and Sirius left, and it became simply a matter of waiting for the Weasleys to arrive. Harry had demonstrated to the Dursleys that he could now do magic outside of school, ensuring their compliance with the story that Remus had cooked up, though he made no mention that it was only due to his new wands, of which he now had five: his phoenix feather wand, two dragon heartstring wands from the Black family armory, and the two he had purchased earlier that week in Philadelphia. While he waited, he recalled the wand shop, which had been—like many consumer services in America—arguably more professional and impressive than what could be found in Diagon Alley, undoubtedly a result of increased competition for business.

The wand shop had been located adjacent to Washington Square, and was predictably named the "Washington Square Armament and Wand Co." Here, there were racks of wands (and other assorted weapons), much like at Ollivander's store, but these "off the rack" wands were relatively inexpensive, and less powerful than a bespoke wand. Harry had had the idea that perhaps a wand using a thunderbird feather core from his animagus form might be a superior match to his phoenix feather wand, and had asked the wandmaker, George Biddle, if it would be possible. The wandmaker had been enthusiastic, saying that magical animagus forms yielded the best possible matches, and perhaps even better, would not function properly when used against the person from whom the core material had been taken. Harry commissioned two wands, and provided a wing feather and a tail feather from his animagus form. Biddle took the feathers to a line of wand-wood blanks, and simply dropped them—as each feather fell, it was drawn to a specific wood. The tail feather had gravitated to a piece of oak wood (putting Harry in mind of the mighty oak at his and Annie's spot by the forest), and the wing feather had fallen onto a piece of elder wood.

Biddle had taken some measurements and had Harry wave around a few practice wands, then disappeared into the store's small machine shop, using a regular non-magical wood lathe to shape the blanks into wands. Harry returned several hours later, having requested—at truly enormous expense, and causing a significant increase in the time necessary to manufacture the wands—that runes be carved into the inside of the wand shell to prevent physical damage or snapping. Such workmanship was only possible using non-magical computer-controlled machines, which was why this service was not to be found on Diagon Alley, and it did not run cheap. However, Harry had the cash to spare, and he didn't want the wands to be snapped and have his feathers accessible to a potential foe, who could use them for all manner of thaumaturgic spells and rituals. Poorer by over a hundred galleons (extremely expensive, considering the fact that his wand from Ollivander had cost only seven galleons), but richer by two masterfully-shaped, ideally-matched 13" wands, Harry had left the shop quite satisfied, and had been even more satisfied when he tried out his new wands. They were superior in every way to his holly wand and the wands he had picked up from the Black family armory. Even better, since Harry had told Biddle that he was going back to Britain in a few days, Biddle hadn't bothered to register the wands with the American version of the Trace, and he didn't have the authority to register them with the British Ministry of Magic Trace system either. Basically, these wands would let Harry do underaged magic wherever he wanted (not that he couldn't do so already with his ebony and cedar wands).

His ruminations were interrupted at precisely 5 PM by a knock on the door. Thankfully, Remus had pointed out in the response to Ron's letter that the fireplace at Number 4 was not connected to the Floo network, so the Weasleys should apparate or take a portkey. Upon reflection, Harry was certain that some minor disaster—probably including the destruction of much of the living room—had been averted. Harry answered the door, and invited in Arthur, Fred, George, and Ron.

"Harry, my boy, you've grown this summer!" Arthur exclaimed, looking around the exceedingly muggle home with great interest. "Ah, and you must be Harry's aunt and uncle! So very nice to meet you!"

Petunia and Vernon stood stiffly, ignoring Arthur's outstretched hand. Dudley slowly backed out of the room, and then the thunderous sound of the large boy ascending the stairs echoed through the house.

"Yes," Vernon said. "Yes, I'm sure it is very nice to meet us. I take it you'll be leaving soon?"

"Erm...yes, we'll depart presently. I thought I'd let you take a moment to say goodbye to your nephew."

Vernon and Petunia stared at Arthur as though he had just grown another head, then turned slowly toward Harry. Stonefaced, Vernon grated out an extremely reluctant "Goodbye, Potter."

"Goodbye, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon. I'll see you next summer."

"Yes...until then," Petunia practically spat.

Somewhat put out by the coldness that the Dursleys had shown him and Harry, Arthur directed his attention to his sons, who were gathering up Harry's things. Harry had thought ahead, and in order to facilitate a quick and clean getaway, had brought all of his luggage downstairs already. Fred and George picked up the trunk (inside which Gadsden was already coiled up and sleeping off a particularly large meal of the neighbor's formerly-yappy little chihuahua), Ron got Hedwig's cage, and all five wizards stepped out onto the front patio, having nothing else to say to the Dursleys.

"Here boys," Arthur said, taking out a long rope. "This is a portkey, Harry—it's kind of like a portable Floo, without the fire. Grab on, and make sure you hold on to the luggage tightly."

Despite Arthur's rather inexpertly-made portkey, Harry had now been on enough portkey rides to keep his feet when they landed at the Burrow. After some fussing by Molly Weasley, the twins disappeared to go do whatever it was that they did in their free time, and Ron, Harry, and Hermione (who had joined the group in the kitchen) retreated upstairs, with a furiously-blushing Ginny close behind.

"So out with it, mate," Ron said once they were behind a closed door.

"Out with what?" Harry asked, feigning confusion.

"Out with how you grew almost a foot, gained at least two stone of muscle, and aren't wearing glasses anymore!" Hermione commanded insistently, practically vibrating with interest.

This was it, Harry realized. This was the moment he had known was coming, when he would either tell his friends what he had done all summer, or when he would lie to them. He thought briefly about everything he had done—cheating the Trace with Black wands, Philadelphia, nutritional potions, the Jersey Devil, Wisconsin, the animagus ritual, channeling magic, the training with Jacob Crane, and _Annie... _That last fleeting thought brought back the soreness in his heart, and he made his decision.

"Well, it's nothing special," Harry said. Lies it would be. This summer had been for _him_, and Annie was _his_ to remember. "I let the Dursleys know that someone would be...dogging...them about my health, so they actually fed me this summer. The glasses...well, have you ever heard of laser eye surgery?"

"No, what's that?" Ginny asked, blushing. That fangirl crush of hers reminded Harry of how much he missed walking around in America and having nobody think twice about a kid with a lightning-bolt scar. Having gotten used to that, being back in magical Britain was going to be infuriating.

Hermione's long-winded explanation (somehow delivered in one breath) told everyone present everything they had never really cared to know about laser eye surgery. Harry was almost surprised that everyone had bought his lies; he had expected that _someone_ would realize how unlikely it was that he would get in such good shape (and a tan, no less!) sitting around in the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive all summer, but apparently they were so used to accepting what people said at face value that nobody blinked an eye. Classic magical Britain mentality, Harry mused wryly. Frankly, Harry thought it was almost embarrassing how easily he had fooled everyone—even the ever-sensible Hermione, who really should have known better, had believed his explanation without any reservations.

The discussion soon turned to what everyone else had done all summer, the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, and the inevitable challenge to a chess game (which Harry intentionally lost as quickly as possible, having no inclination to drag the game out).

Finally, it was dinnertime, and Harry got to meet Charlie and Bill, the extremely-cool oldest Weasley boys. Charlie explained that he worked at a dragon preserve in Romania, and Bill spoke about the exciting life of a Gringotts cursebreaker. Percy, not to be outdone, began preaching pompously about the Ministry, cauldron bottoms, how great his boss Mr. Crouch was, and probably something else, but not a single person was paying him any attention by then. Molly, though, had been slightly put out that Harry had already purchased his school things, as her offer to buy them for him the next day was politely refused. Harry was once again glad of his foresight—he would not have wanted to put the key to his practically-overflowing vault in Molly's impoverished hands. Not that he thought she would ever actually steal from him; he just didn't really fancy the idea of her looking at all of his wealth and then feeling bad about her own lack thereof.

Harry was glad that he had spent so much effort tiring himself out the previous night, as the adults were determined to send the children off to bed early so that everyone would be awake at dawn for the portkey to the World Cup campsite. Even so, he had some difficulty falling asleep; Ron snored something awful, and he had grown accustomed to sleeping in larger, more comfortable beds at the Great White Bear and the Alexander. He was also acutely missing the feeling of a warm body next to him, and he was already becoming a little bit frustrated at the sudden lack of sex. Though he wasn't really ready to look for an emotional connection (the "summer fling" with Annie had clearly become more that that, and he wasn't ready to move forward quite yet), he decided that by the time he got back to Hogwarts, he would at least look for a partner. Maybe, he thought as he began to drift off, he could put together one of those arrangements...

* * *

Harry was the only one able to drag himself out of bed at dawn without being hollered at by Molly Weasley. With thunder ringing in his ears (having dreamed about the "full-throttle" flight he had made during his last night in America), Harry quickly dressed and gathered all of his things. He asked Gadsden if he wanted to be let out, but Gadsden was fine with hanging out in Harry's trunk for the time being.

Once the rest of the Weasleys and Hermione were awake, the whole troop set off down the road to meet up with the Amos and Cedric Diggory (an awkward experience for all, as Amos insisted on effectively proclaiming that his son was better than everyone else, especially Harry), and then the whole group gathered around the old boot and portkeyed into the huge mess that was the Quidditch World Cup campsite.

* * *

It was a slightly subdued group that returned to the Burrow on the morning of August 26. Percy was particularly miserable, having had a public dressing-down by his boss after his wand had been found to have cast the Dark Mark. In fact, it was only an impromptu interrogation under veritaserum that kept him from being charged with any number of serious crimes. He had, however, been luckier than Winky the house-elf; while Percy kept his job, Winky had been dismissed on the spot, despite her pathetic begging and insistence that she was innocent. Afterward, Harry had suggested to Arthur that he take on the despondent elf, as it would certainly decrease Molly's workload around the Burrow, but Arthur declined, saying that they had passed up opportunities like this before because Molly preferred to do things herself. Later, Harry had summoned the elf and bonded her himself, then ordered her to go help Dobby at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. One simply did not let pass such opportunities, as elves who had been dismissed rarely stayed available for long; if they didn't find work quickly, they often committed suicide.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully; the group played several backyard Quidditch games, lots of chess, and (at least Harry and Hermione) began to read ahead in some of their texts—though Harry was already far ahead in Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, he still had some catching up to do in Arithmancy). Harry introduced the group to Gadsden, and only Ron and Molly had any real objection; however, they believed Harry's assurance that he was harmless. Ron and Hermione initially didn't like the idea of Harry embracing his nature as a Parselmouth, but Harry was adamant—it was part of who he was, and if it was something he had taken from Voldemort, then he had won it fair and square.

That small argument more or less resolved to Harry's satisfaction, the only real excitement remaining of the holiday occurred on the morning of September 1. Amos Diggory fire-called Arthur, having heard that a mutual friend had landed himself in hot water with the muggle police. Arthur went to go sort it out (probably through judicious use of memory charms), while the rest of the group made their way to Kings Cross. Harry didn't spend much more time thinking about the plight of the apparently-legendary dark wizard hunter; he figured that he'd hear all about it soon enough.

A protracted round of goodbyes later, the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station and began to chug its way to Scotland. As Harry looked out the window, he felt a distinct pang—for the first time since he had started at Hogwarts, he wished that summer hadn't ended.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Back to Britain and the Burrow! Note that Fred and George never got a chance to test their Ton-Tongue Toffee on Dudley. Since Harry had already intimidated the Dursleys before the Weasleys arrived, the arrival of four more wizards made him retreat in fear, and the twins never made it upstairs, since Harry had already brought down his luggage. Thus, they never end up getting caught by Molly, which saves a great deal of their inventory.

Note that this chapter is basically just an extended timeskip to bring us up to the beginning of term, hence its relative brevity. The relevant information is that Harry is effectively in control of the Dursleys, he's got a pair of shiny new thunderbird-feather wands, and everyone at the Burrow believed his bullshit explanation for how he grew, got in shape, and ditched the glasses. The Quidditch World Cup happened as it did in canon, and the events afterward deviated only in that Harry is more security-conscious of his person, using wand holsters instead of just putting his wand in his pocket, so Percy got his wand jacked instead. The fallout is the same, though, and Harry snags Winky before she kills herself (since Dobby wasn't free at the same time, he wouldn't have been around to get her a job at Hogwarts).

As I said in the Author's Notes for chapter 20, I'll be traveling for work until Wednesday, which means the next chapter probably won't be posted until Thursday or Friday. Until then!


	22. First Shots and Bad Luck With Interest

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

On the night of August 31—or perhaps more accurately, in the early morning hours of September 1—a small, rat-like man crept through the mist rising off the wet ground, and laid a basket reverently upon the doorstep of a well-to-do London townhouse. He almost snickered to himself at the obvious symmetry—over a decade ago, Dumbledore himself had placed a baby on a doorstep, and the people who opened the door had their lives irrevocably changed. Shaking himself out of his thoughts—there would be plenty of time for that later, and his master would surely make him beg for death if this plan failed on his account—Wormtail gave several sharp knocks on the door, then melted into the shadows, aiming his wand carefully.

Less than a minute later, the door opened, revealing an impeccably-groomed (even at this time of night!) man with a ridiculous toothbrush mustache. Even Wormtail knew about Hitler—how could such a highly-placed Ministry official wear that look? No wonder only his sycophantic personal aide took him seriously. As the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation looked left and right with a searchlight-like _lumos_, a high, cold voice hissed out in a low whisper that nevertheless carried through the humid air. So typical, for a wizard to search left and right, but neglect to look up or down.

"_Imperio," _the Dark Lord said. While some wizards merely cast spells, the Dark Lord _commanded _them. Bartemius Crouch was a strong-willed man, who had extensive experience with the Imperius Curse, but the Dark Lord was not the Dark Lord for nothing. Nobody had ever resisted his will once he imposed it with the Imperius Curse, and Crouch was no different, despite Voldemort's diminished form.

Minutes later, the Dark Lord's army had doubled in size. Proving his devotion, Bartemius Crouch, Junior turned his wand upon his own father, leaving Bartemius Crouch, Senior so badly brain-damaged that his own will no longer existed, and further resistance to the Imperious Curse was rendered impossible—he would remain in Voldemort's thrall for the rest of his life.

Wormtail, the Crouches, and the Dark Lord apparated away to begin the most dangerous phase of the night's activities.

An hour later, a man who looked a great deal like Alastor Moody _ennervated_ Wormtail. After shaking off the lingering effects of the powerful stunner, Wormtail picked up his master and apparated to safety, followed closely by Crouch, Senior (who, claiming to have apprehended Wormtail, had proven to be excellent bait).

The man who looked like Alastor Moody got his game face on. He had always enjoyed the theater, and now he had the chance to deliver the performance of a lifetime.

* * *

Immediately after the Welcome Feast, Professor McGonagall had told him that the headmaster wished to see him in his office. Realizing that Dumbledore may suspect that Harry had been away for the summer, as the old man was neither blind nor stupid (Harry's tan didn't exactly scream "England," and his increase in height and muscle and the lack of his glasses suggested some healing), Harry began to go over his plan for this confrontation, which Remus and Sirius had predicted. The three had put together a general scheme—evade Dumbledore's questions, and go on the offensive to demand some answers of his own; if he was lucky, Dumbledore would be thrown off-balance enough to dismiss him and cease the interrogation. After all, they felt that Dumbledore had a great deal to answer for when it came to Harry.

As he entered the office, his attention was drawn to Fawkes, who met Harry's eyes and chirped cheerfully—a "hello" of sorts, to a kindred spirit—as the flames flickering in Fawkes's eyes discovered the lightning hidden behind Harry's. Beneath the phoenix's perch, Harry noted that several of the instruments on Dumbledore's desk were no longer as shiny or active as they had been during Harry's last visit to Dumbledore's office, and most were completely silent.

"Hi, Fawkes," Harry said pleasantly, returning the phoenix's greeting before turning to address Dumbledore. "Good evening, Headmaster."

Dumbledore, who had been somewhat surprised that Harry had greeted the bird (and so familiarly, too!) before his headmaster, sat back in his chair behind tented fingers, before leaning forward to address Harry.

"Harry, my boy. Welcome back to Hogwarts. I'm glad to notice that you are looking quite healthy. May I ask how your holidays were?"

Harry noted the veiled interest beneath the seemingly-casual question. Dumbledore had studied alchemy at the foot of Nicholas Flamel, so it was impossible that he had not by now realized that Harry's new-found health was the result of a course of nutrient potions. And unless Harry was much mistaken, he suspected that at least some of the instruments—about half of which were now apparently dead—on Dumbledore's desk were used to monitor his holly wand (after all, Fawkes had supplied the feather, and Dumbledore could easily use thaumaturgy to track its use) and possibly the premises of Number 4 Privet Drive, if not perform direct surveillance on Harry himself. It was clear that Dumbledore knew that Harry had left Number 4, and was trying—not very subtly—to find out where he had been, and what he had done.

"My holidays were satisfactory, Headmaster," Harry replied after a _very_ slight pause, sufficient to indicate to Dumbledore that he knew very well that the Headmaster's interest was nothing but casual. "And yours?"

"Busy, my boy, very busy," Dumbledore said genially, pretending not to notice or understand the pause. "Organizing the Triwizard Tournament is no mean feat, I can assure you. The negotiations alone..."—he paused, _very _slightly, as though to consider whether explaining would be worth his time, before waving a hand and shaking his head—"...but I'm certain you don't really want to hear those boring details," he said, dismissing the topic.

Harry decided that it was time to go on the offensive—better to strike first, before Dumbledore managed to get him talking about the health potions, which would lead to Sirius and Remus, which would lead to America, which would lead to Harry disobeying Dumbledore's order to remain at Number 4 Privet Drive. Despite Dumbledore's utter lack of authority to order him around on his holidays, Harry figured that Dumbledore would not quite see it that way, and Harry _did_ have to spend four more years here, and he was hoping to spend those years without Dumbledore trying to get him back under his thumb.

"Yes, sir. I imagine that you must have been quite busy in your posts as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, as well," Harry said lightly, before his eyes hardened and his tone became more serious. "You know, what with the return to activity of a terrorist organization in Britain, and in no less public a fashion than at the Quidditch World Cup, right before the eyes of the international magical community. I imagine the eyes of the world are fixed on our island, awaiting our government's response—and I sincerely doubt that the minor spectacle of endangering schoolchildren for entertainment will distract them. Seeing as how you are a major part of this government, I was hoping you'd let me know what the plan is, moving forward."

Dumbledore's eyes widened almost comically. Harry was sure that the man must have been expecting at least some resistance (after all, he knew that Harry had a habit of concealing some of his schemes at school), but it was clear that he had not even considered the possibility of Harry challenging him so directly.

"Come now, Harry, I'm quite certain that the Ministry of Magic is investigating the events of—"

"Don't give me that, _sir,_" Harry snapped, interrupting him—Harry knew that if he let Dumbledore start working that silver tongue of his, he'd worm his way around the issue and end up painting Harry as unreasonable. "_You _have the power and the duty to influence events at a national level, but you are doing no such thing. I've read the Daily Prophet all summer!" A lie, of course, but Remus and Sirius had filled him in on the general happenings in magical Britain, and Dumbledore had spent the vast majority of the summer negotiating for the Triwizard Tournament. "You haven't even moved against Fudge's "Kiss on Sight" order on Sirius! You are the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and it is your job to see justice done. I'm starting to think you have some ulterior motive for keeping Sirius from taking care of me!"

Remus had suggested this particular line—Dumbledore had a good idea of how much Sirius meant to Harry, and if Harry called him on his failure to address the issue, he was essentially delivering an ultimatum: Harry's loyalty was no longer blind and unconditional, and Dumbledore would have to earn it from now on, beginning with clearing Sirius Black of all charges. It even held a bit of a threat: if Dumbledore wouldn't see to Sirius's freedom, then Harry would find someone who would—and if it came out that Dumbledore had known of Sirius's innocence but done nothing, his opponents in the Ministry and Wizengamot would have all the ammunition they needed to have him dismissed from his governmental posts.

Internally, Dumbledore reeled—he had called this meeting to find out how the blood protections around Number 4 Privet Drive had collapsed, not to be called to account for his own activities! He had never considered that Harry's loyalty might be called into question, but here it was, as plain as day! He should have known better; Harry had told him at the end of his second year that the Sorting Hat's first choice for him had been Slytherin. Harry's continued loyalty would be essential if the worst should happen, which meant that all of a sudden, it was Dumbledore who would be working to serve Harry's interests, rather than the other way around. Recognizing that the balance had shifted, Dumbledore immediately moved to appease Harry.

"Harry..." Dumbledore began with a tired sigh, the twinkle in his eye long gone and the lines on his face deepening. "Please forgive the pace of an aging man. I do have a plan in the works, but it may take some time to enact. Sirius will be cleared, I promise you."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, standing up. "It's been a long day, and I'd like to catch up with my friends. If there's nothing else, may I be excused?"

"Yes, of course. Just remember, Harry—if there is ever anything you wish to tell me, my door is open."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Harry replied formally, repressing a snort, before giving in to his baser natures and firing off a parting shot. "And sir, if there is ever anything _you_ wish to tell _me_, I will be glad to hear it."

* * *

Harry's first potions lesson of the term was the next afternoon, immediately after lunch. Harry had learned enough occlumency to know that Dumbledore had not attempted legilimency on him the previous night—that virtually ensured that Snape would function as Dumbledore's trigger-man. Harry had begun to suspect that Dumbledore kept Snape around as a sort of "fixer;" that was the only possible explanation for keeping such a reprehensible creature near children. Sirius and Remus had agreed, noting that Snape must be deeply beholden to Dumbledore, who had pulled strings to keep the supposedly-repentant Death Eater out of Azkaban, and now played key roles in many of Dumbledore's less-than-savory (and often illegal) schemes. In truth, a skilled, powerful wizard utterly bereft of morals (as Snape must be) probably made for an extremely useful henchman.

While Harry carefully dissected his horned toad (as several of its body parts were to be used in the potion to be brewed on that Friday's double potions lesson) and mentally prepared for the inevitable confrontation, that selfsame henchman suddenly loomed over his desk.

"Ah, Potter," Snape whispered softly, his voice nevertheless carrying through the silent classroom. "I heard you had a chat with the headmaster last night. Breaking rules already, are we?"

"No, sir," Harry said stiffly, determined not to rise to the bait. "The headmaster only wished to welcome me back to school."

"Demanding special treatment, hmm?" Snape sneered. "Just like your misbegotten mangy mutt of a godfather and your cretin of a father. Look at me when I speak to you, Potter!"

The whole class jumped slightly at the Snape's harsh command. Harry, though, simply closed his eyes for a brief second, took a breath, and then looked into Snape's eyes.

Witnesses never really agreed on the details of what happened next; the simple fact was that very few of the fourth year students had ever heard of occlumency and legilimency, and fewer still would recognize their use between others. What everyone did agree on, though, was that _something_ passed between Harry Potter and Severus Snape, and whatever it was, it was of sufficient magnitude that their curiosity was crushed beneath their collective sense of self-preservation.

Harry and Snape, though, were quite aware of what was happening. As Snape shoved his consciousness into Harry's mind with a brutal thrust of legilimency, he was surprised to find nothing...at first, that is. Within seconds, though, _something_ stirred, and Snape suddenly felt as though he was caught in a vast storm. Tension built and built, with Snape's intrusive mind bending under the mounting pressure, as the professor became aware of absolute fury. In the back of his mind, he recalled the official motto of Hogwarts, before shaking off the stray thought and renewing his assault.

Harry grinned inwardly—Snape, in his arrogance, had allowed his legilimency probe to expose too much of himself (after all, what fourth year was a powerful enough occlumens to be able to get anything out of him?), and the thunderbird raging within his subconscious had become aware of the Dark Mark tainting the professor's soul. Now, all he had to do was sit back and watch the fireworks...

The thunderclap would have shattered eardrums and glass alike, had it existed outside of the two wizards' heads. As it was, power rolled off of Harry, arcing between his fingers, and Snape was expelled from Harry's mind with such force that he physically staggered back, only managing to remain on his feet by grabbing onto Crabbe's conveniently-located neck. Ears ringing from the massive explosion of the mental thunderbolt, he stared at Harry with wide eyes, literally shocked that the whelp had swatted aside his legilimency probe with such ease...and such _power_. Snape was an arrogant man, but he was also intelligent enough to realize that whatever Potter had been up to over the summer, it had changed him, and—as much as he hated to admit it (though his own sense of self-preservation, carefully honed by service to the Dark Lord, demanded that he do so)—Potter was no longer a mere child to be taken lightly.

Harry, for his part, presented a face of absolute innocence, and met Snape's astonished eyes without an ounce of fear.

"Was there something you wanted, sir?" he asked sweetly, as though he had not just repelled an attack—and one that any court would call Dark Arts, and convict accordingly—with such ease.

Snape glanced around the room, noting that every single eye was upon him. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for your insolence, you arrogant brat," he hissed, before turning his ire upon the rest of the class. "Get back to work, you imbeciles!"

At the end of the period, Harry left the dungeons as quickly as possible, fully expecting retaliation from Snape. However, it never came—Harry reasoned that Snape was probably worried that Harry would go to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if pushed, and using legilimency against a minor was a serious offense. It was nice, Harry thought, to have some actual blackmail material on his least-favorite person in the world. His musings were interrupted, though, by those he could not escape: his friends.

"Harry, wait up!" Hermione called, with Ron in tow, gasping for breath as she caught up. "What did you do to Professor Snape? You can't just go around...doing...whatever it was you did, to professors!"

"I dunno, Hermione," Ron opined. "Whatever it was, it was bloody brilliant. Totally worth a few points. I can't believe you didn't get detention!"

Harry smiled and nodded, continuing toward Gryffindor tower. In his exultation, Ron didn't appear to notice that Harry had not actually provided an explanation for what had just occurred, and as he chattered animatedly at Seamus and Dean, Hermione proved that she, at least, would not let it go so easily.

"Harry, I know you're hiding something," she whispered furiously. "First that ridiculous lie about your vacation—honestly, how the others were fooled is beyond me—and now throwing a professor around the classroom with your brain?! What has gotten into you? What did you do all summer?!"

Harry stopped and turned to face her—his expression suddenly unreadable, but his eyes betraying his irritation—while internally, his mind whirred. _Of course_ Hermione hadn't actually believed his story about a bit of extra food and hanging out in his bedroom. "Hermione, what did you do all summer? You went home, where you wanted to go, to see your parents who loved you. What would you do if the headmaster told you that you couldn't go home, and instead you had to go where you knew you were hated, and wouldn't give you any good reason why?"

"What?" Hermione said, put off-balance by Harry's sudden anger. "What does that have to do with it?"

Harry's gaze bore into Hermione's eyes, and for the first time in three years of friendship, Hermione was suddenly uncomfortable near Harry.

"It has _everything_ to do with it," Harry hissed, before he turned on his heel and strode away. Taken aback, Hermione didn't come up with any way to continue the argument until after Harry had disappeared up the stairs to the boys' dormitories.

As Harry jumped onto his bed, he realized that he probably shouldn't have gone off on Hermione—technically, he was lying to her, and she was understandably upset. He had always had a bit of a temper—perhaps getting the thunderbird all pumped for a fight, and then not really letting it out had exacerbated that tendency? Well, the solution was simple—go let off some steam.

Harry donned his invisibility cloak, unshrunk his broom, and shot out of his window, closing it behind him. He knew he couldn't transform here—it was broad daylight, and even if he just flew around without causing a storm, someone was bound to see the massive bird and start asking questions. However, he did have his broom, and spent the next few hours rocketing around the skies, taking advantage of and manipulating the air currents to go faster and higher than he ever had on his broom.

It was a much-calmed Harry Potter that walked into the Great Hall for dinner, and after a brief apology to Hermione for his outburst, and citing the stress of his confrontation with Snape—"_Professor_ Snape, Harry"—as the cause. She accepted his apology, though he knew that she, and to a lesser extent, Ron, would soon resume asking questions that he didn't want to answer.

* * *

.

"Harry, who is that letter from?"

.

"Hey mate, I saw some photos in your trunk when I was looking for the Map last night—who are they?"

.

"Harry, who are you writing to?"

.

"Hey mate, wouldn't you rather play some chess than read? That looks pretty boring. Why take Arithmancy when you could go for the easy O in Divination?"

.

"Harry, you're doing quite well in classes so far, without even asking for my help...what have you been reading? And where have you been practicing all your spellwork?"

.

"Hey mate, I thought your wand was a bit shorter than that? And what's with the knife?"

* * *

The azure flames of the goblet of fire turned crimson for the fourth time, and Harry knew that his hopes for a normal year had been shattered. He was vaguely aware of a sort of clamping feeling, not really in his chest, more like beyond it—had he imagined it, or was he...

.

.

.

Of course he hadn't imagined it.

.

.

.

Dumbledore broke the long silence, clearing his throat. After another pause, he spoke.

"_Harry Potter._"

This time, the silence was deafening.

And judging by the suspicious look on Hermione's face and Ron's angrily-set jaw, Harry was finally collecting—with interest—whatever bad luck he had earned with his uneventful Chicago trip and generally excellent summer.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Plot Note: Harry _assume__d_ that everyone bought his lie about his summer vacation because nobody called him out on it. Some of the craftier people he knows, however, may not be fooled, and even the dullards are starting to become a bit suspicious...

Calendar note: It is clear that the Hogwarts Express and the Welcome Feast takes place on Monday, September 1, and I have bowed to Rowling's calendar to make it so. However, classes _also_ apparently begin on Monday, September 1 (despite Dumbledore's "tomorrow morning" comment at the feast), which is obviously impossible unless Hogwarts is inside of a giant time-turner. Therefore, I've decided that classes will begin on Tuesday, September 2, and this extra day of classes will be made up on Monday, December 21 (previously, the final day of fall term would have been Friday, December 18). That seems to make things work out best.

Also, some reviewers have brought up a few good questions that I'll address in this Author's Note; first, though, I want to thank them for their critique, as it gives me a chance to examine my own work from the reader's point of view, and try to fill in some of the holes I may have inadvertently left in the story.

1. Did Morris ever have that chat with Harry about his living situation? Yes—it happened "off-screen," and I didn't include it explicitly because it would have taken up a whole chapter while not moving the plot or Harry's character forward. I think the background knowledge that it occurred is sufficient, and I think we can all imagine how it went anyway (Dursleys bad, living with godfather and quasi-uncle now, won't let people mistreat me anymore, thanks for the concern, I'm fine).

2. Apparation: age limits are different from driving because if you screw up apparating, you only hurt yourself, while if you screw up driving, you can kill yourself _and_ bystanders. Thus, the standard for apparation in the States is limited to "Can you do it? Try not to splinch yourself. Okay, good enough."

3. Training with Jacob Crane and his buddies: keep in mind that wizards generally have practical schoolwork centered around combat, "friendly duels" are a common pass-time, and every witch and wizard carries around a deadly weapon (wand) as a matter of course—it makes sense to me that wizarding attitudes would be more relaxed regarding dueling training.

4. Abuse reporting: Hopkins treated Harry for malnourishment; Harry never said anything about the Dursleys' neglect. In the absence of any explanation, Hopkins got the impression that the orphan was simply used to "living rough," and that had caused his condition.

5. An "arrangement": That was just the half-asleep musing of a horny teenager. A fully-conscious Harry obviously knows that's unrealistic, and not even that desirable—Harry just isn't that kind of guy, and he knows it. Like I said in an earlier note, Harry isn't suddenly going to become some kind of Lothario; despite his successful (if brief) summer dalliance in America (which was on easy mode anyway, because he was the exotic and powerful foreigner to the local girl with no other easy romantic options her age), Harry still isn't exactly brilliant with the ladies. It's just that now he won't fall apart as soon as a pretty girl looks at him.

6. Thunderbird Properties:

_a. Thunderbird Apparation_: I think it'll be roughly equivalent to phoenix apparation. There is no metric in canon (or even really in fanon) for the specifics of phoenix apparation, except that it bypasses most anti-apparation wards (yes, "wards" don't explicitly exist in canon, but they're a useful and believable construct that pretty much everyone imagines). Thus, I'll say that the range is equal to that of apparation (and thus dependent upon the wizard's skill and power), and the rest of its properties are the same as phoenix apparation. Harry doesn't realize it, but the fact that his animagus form has a built-in apparation mechanism was one of the things that allowed him to learn to apparate so easily and intuitively (even doing so as a form of accidental magic).

_b. Thunderbird Transformations and Storms_: Will Harry cause a storm every time he transforms? No; when he transforms, he's just a bigass (and badass) magical bird. He causes a storm as a side effect of going "all-out," and the more he submerges himself in the thunderbird's instincts, the larger and more uncontrolled the storm will be (so if he's just flying around and is suddenly overcome by rage, his fury will manifest itself as a huge storm). Have no fear, he can transform and fly around Hogwarts without turning the place into an electrified flood zone.


	23. Plots, Lies, and Breaking Ties

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The next several days were extremely unpleasant for Harry Potter. The entire student population of Hogwarts (with the possible exception of Fred and George Weasley, who viewed Harry's entry into the tournament as a successful prank) was shunning him, and even the professors had basically given him the cold shoulder. While the last two months had seen many of his professors praising his much-improved classroom performance, now they barely spoke to him. Snape, of course, had taken the opportunity to be even more cruel than usual; as a result, Gryffindor had zero points, and the rest of the lions blamed Harry for that, too (which was likely Snape's intention).

"_It's like second year all over again_," Harry hissed bitterly to Gadsden. "_What __will__ it take for these idiots to give me the benefit of the doubt?_"

Harry had just had another argument with Hermione, after which she finally threw in her lot with Ron and the rest of the school, all having decided that they couldn't trust Harry's word that he hadn't entered the tournament.

"It's just another example of you lying to us, Harry," she had said, almost apologetically—as though her words were hurting her as much as they hurt Harry. "First you come back with a snake, and you won't tell anyone what you did last summer, and you're doing so much better in classes...you've been pulling away from everyone all term, and now you broke the rules to get into the tournament."

"Fine," Harry had spat, barely keeping himself from drawing his wand. "Forget all about the troll, and the Stone, and the Chamber. Forget all the times I've put my neck out for everyone here. Cast your lot in with the rest of them—follow the herd, yeah? There's that Gryffindor courage."

With that, he had stomped up to his dorm, leaving Hermione in tears and Ron crowing savagely. Harry had always known that Ron was jealous of his wealth and fame (both of which Harry disliked), but now he was taking it much further than Harry had ever thought possible. It was like he _wanted_ Harry to be cast down, like it gave him some sort of boost. Hermione was hurt by the break, but Ron was practically taking pleasure in it, even going so far as to try to use Gadsden's presence to convince people of Harry's sneaky, dishonest nature.

"_You should go from here_," Gadsden said, a note of concern in his sibilant hiss. "_I've seen the other humans poking around in your things...I think they will try to sabotage you_."

Harry suspected that Gadsden was overreacting; people were likely scouting his belongings for future pranks. However, he did not intend to let people walk all over him again—in second year, he had been afraid to stand up for himself, but that was before he'd killed a basilisk, fought off a hundred dementors, and stabbed a demon to death. Most importantly, that had been before the changes wrought by his animagus transformation.

"_You're right,_" Harry replied, cold determination washing over him. "_I'm done here. We're moving into the Chamber._"

Harry had explored much more of the Chamber of Secrets this term; it was the perfect place to practice spells that he had learned over the summer, which he wouldn't want to have to explain to Hermione. Also, it went below the anti-apparition wards laid over the Hogwarts grounds, so he could even practice apparation. In his exploration, he had found several rooms—one looked to have once been a library (though the had long-since turned to a mildewy mess), another was some sort of study, and another was a bedroom. It was actually very similar in décor to the Slytherin common room that Harry had seen in his second year, but somewhat nicer (as one might expect, considering that this was likely where Salazar Slytherin had slept). It had only taken Winky a few days to get the whole place liveable again, including removing all of the remains of the basilisk.

* * *

Within days, of course, people noticed that Harry was nowhere to be found any time he wasn't in class. He didn't even go to the Great Hall for meals; why bother, when he had his own house-elf? Therefore, it was not entirely unexpected when Professor McGonagall held him back after class on the second Thursday of November, almost a week after he moved into the Chamber.

"Mr. Potter," she said sternly. "You have skipped a number of detentions assigned by your professors, your whereabouts are never known, and Gryffindor house has remained at zero points for several days. Explain yourself."

"With all due respect, _professor_," Harry replied, sarcasm dripping from his words like venom from fangs. "I really don't see why I should."

McGonagall's eyes flashed with righteous anger. "I am not accustomed to such disrespect, Mr. Potter," she snapped. "I am the Deputy Headmistress of this school, and you will address me with the respect I am due, or you will face the consequences!"

"That's right, you _are_ the Deputy Headmistress of this school," Harry hissed. McGonagall almost jumped back at the cold rage in his voice. "So why have you allowed the entirety of the student body, and most of the professors, to treat me like dirt for the past two weeks? Are those the consequences for being foolish enough to entrust my safety to you and the headmaster? It's second year all over again, and I'm sick of it!"

"Mr. Potter—" she began, but Harry cut her off.

"Consider this my resignation from Gryffindor House, _professor," _he growled, tearing the house patch off of his robe and throwing his scarlet and gold tie onto her desk. "I've moved out of Gryffindor Tower. I will attend classes for the rest of the year because the tuition has already come out of my trust vault, but I will have nothing else to do with this school. _If_ I survive this farce of a Tournament, I'll be looking into alternative options for my education."

Harry skipped the rest of his classes that day, knowing that McGonagall would immediately report his tirade to the headmaster, who would inevitably attempt to meddle at the first opportunity. Instead, he spent the remainder of the day blowing things up in the Chamber. That night, a mild storm swept over the school; it was the perfect chance for Harry to go flying for _real_, and actually let off some steam. Thus, what had begun as a mild storm turned into a raging tempest, with thunderclaps that shook the school and bolts of lightning that turned wide patches of ground into smoking, charred glass.

As Harry flew over the Forbidden Forest, he saw four dragons thrashing against their chains, with dozens of handlers trying to regain control. One was at least half again the size of the next-largest, and nearly twice the size of the smallest. Obviously agitated by the storm, it swung its massive spiked tail, crushing and impaling a particularly unlucky handler.

'So that's the first task,' Harry thought. 'Dragons. I wonder if that handler was the first life this tournament will cost?'

* * *

Colin Creevey—who had thankfully jumped on the "Potter Stinks" bandwagon, and thus had stopped pestering Harry for photos and autographs—was a most unlikely savior, Harry mused as he beat a hasty retreat from Snape's class. He would have bet all the gold in Gringotts that Snape had planned to "test the antidotes" on him.

Of course, nothing was without cost; the price for escaping Snape's clutches was to walk into some sort of "meet the press" event for the tournament, thinly veiled as some assurance that each champion had a working wand. He walked as slowly as possible, examining every portrait along the way as though he had never seen them before, to Colin's obvious discomfort (and thus his own intense amusement). Finally, they reached the classroom, just in time for Harry to overhear Fleur admitting that she was part veela.

"Ah, there's our fourth champion!" Ludo Bagman practically shouted—didn't that man have an inside voice? He clapped Harry on the shoulder and maneuvered him over to the other champions. "I hope you don't mind that we got started without you—I guess old Snape didn't want to let you loose, eh lad?"

The other occupants of the small classroom stared at Harry. Cedric couldn't take his eyes off Harry's unadorned robe and plain black tie, so apparently the fact that Harry had abandoned Gryffindor had not yet made it into the rumor mill—though, of course, it would now. A reporter dressed in gaudy magenta robes and clutching a crocodile-skin handbag was staring at Harry like he was a particularly juicy steak. Albus Dumbledore's expression was unreadable, but Harry got the impression that he was not pleased to see that McGonagall's report was true.

Ollivander examined and tested Cedric's and Krum's wands, and then it was Harry's turn. Harry handed Ollivander his holly and phoenix feather wand. There was nothing in the rules stating that the wand examined at the Weighing had to be the wand used in the contest, and Harry knew that Ollivander had some connection to Dumbledore (it was surely no coincidence that Tom Riddle and Harry both had a wand made with Fawkes's feathers), so he wasn't about to let the man see him with a wand made in America.

"Aaaah, yes," Ollivander murmured, stroking it. Harry suddenly pictured Sirius pantomiming that same action as part of a joke he had told that summer, and only barely contained his laughter. He finally shot a stream of wine from the wand (humming in satisfaction as he did so, causing Harry to snort in amusement), and then handed the wand back to Harry. To Harry's surprise, the old man met his eyes and winked; Harry was given the distinct impression that Ollivander knew that the wand was no longer the best match for Harry, and he might even have an idea why.

After a few photos, Harry tried to make it to the door, but found his path blocked by the headmaster.

"Mr. Potter," he said gravely. "I believe we need to have a discussion."

"Mr. Dumbledore," Harry replied, obviously mocking the headmaster's severe tone. "I believe I've already had this discussion with your deputy. If the result was not to your satisfaction, perhaps you should consider different strategies for the next orphan you try to manipulate. Allowing the entire student body and your professors to shun and abuse me for your failures doesn't seem to be working out for you. Makes me wonder what exactly you tried with Riddle—we all know how well _that_ turned out."

Those still in the room stared in fascination at the tense confrontation; the reporter (who had been introduced as Rita Skeeter, muckraker extraordinaire) was writing frantically—Voldemort's true identity was not well-known, but Harry was certain that was about to change, because Rita Skeeter was on the case, and she smelled blood. Also, practically everyone in magical Britain had always been under the impression that Harry Potter was the headmaster's protege, and Dumbledore had always subtly encouraged that notion, owing much of his postwar reputation to the fact that he was supposedly watching carefully over their precious savior. This confrontation, though, was direct evidence to the contrary; it was clearly of the "I've got a bone to pick with you" variety, and the tone alone (to say nothing of the words themselves) spoke volumes about the ever-widening gulf between Harry and Dumbledore.

"Harry...surely whatever problems you are having can be worked out to the satisfaction of all. There is no need to put aside your classmates and friends."

"Yes there is; you know as well as I do that they put me aside first. They made their decisions, and I have made mine. This discussion is over, headmaster."

"Please, Harry, I truly believe that we—"

"Have you acted on the topic of our discussion from after the Welcome Feast?" Harry cut in, already tired of Dumbledore's act. Harry paused for a few seconds, but Dumbledore remained silent. "I didn't think so. Until then, there's precious little you can say that I care to hear, and even less for me to say to you. Now get out of my way."

The headmaster's shoulders slumped as Harry pushed past him and strode through the door. Harry managed to conceal the savage grin on his face until he was back in the Chamber. As unpleasant as having the entire school set against him was, it did have the benefit of allowing him to tell people off. Plus, now he had planted the seed in the public consciousness that Dumbledore was holding something back from Harry, and he would bet his Firebolt that every reporter in magical Britain would want to know what it was. Once he got public opinion behind the idea of Sirius's innocence, his freedom was all but guaranteed.

* * *

"Dragons?!" Remus and Sirius shouted at once. Harry had not had a chance to mirror-call them after his exertions the previous night (the storm had been strong enough to scar the Forbidden Forest, swamp part of the Hogwarts grounds, and warrant a mention on the second page of that morning's Daily Prophet—though today's confrontation with Dumbledore would certainly be front-page news tomorrow), and had done so after dinner. He told them first about his confrontations with McGonagall and Dumbledore, and then moved onto the real issue: surviving the first task.

"Dragons," Harry confirmed. "I don't really know much about them, except that they're big and powerful. I even watched one of them kill one of the handlers." Harry didn't mention that the dragon had been thrashing about in agitation from his storm; he didn't really feel too bad about the man's death, considering the fact that Harry had been thrown into this tournament, and that handler's idea of fun was apparently to force a child to fight a dragon.

"Well, you've got that right," Remus said, getting over his shock about the dragons. "Their scales are almost completely resistant to magic, their breath is a giant magical flamethrower, and they are much faster and more agile than their size would suggest."

"Maybe go for the eyes?" Sirius suggested, not fully confident in his idea. "That might convince it you're enough of a threat not to be worth the effort?"

"I dunno," Harry said. "The basilisk was still able to fight by hearing and scent once it was blind. I got a lucky stab into the roof of its mouth—but then again, it bit me and I almost died, and a dragon would be roasting me with fire."

"Wait," Remus mused, the wheels clearly turning in his mind. "That channeling magic you were telling us about...you said that can take energy from the environment?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, suddenly understanding what Remus was getting at. "You think it might be possible to..."

"I think so," Remus replied. After a brief explanation (Sirius wasn't quite as fast on the uptake), the three wizards began to plan the prank of the century. Their mark: a dragon.

* * *

Though Harry had avoided taking meals at the Great Hall for the last few weeks, he didn't want to miss the general reaction to Rita Skeeter's inevitable hatchet-job. Clad in his invisibility cloak and peeking down from the rafters (he had flown up on his Firebolt before anyone else arrived), he watched as the morning post arrived, and chaos began to unfold.

It started, predictably, at the staff and Ravenclaw tables, followed closely by the rest of the students. At first, it was a low buzz, a murmur of discontent, but it soon grew into a cacophony of outrage. The best part was that it was mostly directed at Dumbledore (they weren't about to blame Harry's estrangement on _themselves_, after all). Dumbledore soon beat a hasty retreat, with Snape and McGonagall at his heels.

Harry waited for the bedlam to die down, and stealthily made his way back to the Chamber once the rest of the crowd had left the Great Hall. Winky had procured a copy of the article for him, and as he began to read, his smile grew—Rita Skeeter certainly hadn't disappointed. The headline alone practically called for Dumbledore's head:

_**Boy-Who-Lived Mistreated at Hogwarts by Students and Staff, Driven From Gryffindor House!**_

_**Will Dumbledore's Scheming Give Us Another Dark Lord?**_

Grinning—it was only a matter of time before the owls started coming in to beg for his side of the story—Harry put down the paper and got to work. After all, he had a dragon to slay.

* * *

Harry continued attending classes the next week, and quickly noticed that Rita's article had had a significant chilling effect on the students and staff. Most wouldn't even look at him, let alone insult him to his face, and the whispers and ridicule behind his back were also dramatically reduced. Perhaps everyone was finally feeling a little guilty, he thought, before snorting to himself. More like they don't want to look bad, in case I end up proving that I'm not responsible for all this, he thought.

Outside of class, he continued to train for the dragon. He briefly felt guilty that he hadn't told Cedric about the first task, but reasoned that the older boy had three extra years of schooling, and if he was as great as everyone had been saying, he'd do fine anyway. Plus, he hadn't objected to the whole "Potter Stinks / Support Cedric Diggory" fashion line (which had grown from badges to hats, tee-shirts, and, oddly enough, capes), so as far as Harry was concerned, the "super-Hufflepuff" was on his own.

He took a brief break from training the following Saturday, November 21. It was a Hogsmeade weekend, which he planned to use to meet Rita Skeeter (about whose tactics Remus had given Harry a full briefing) and discuss an article about Sirius Black's innocence. Harry was fed up with waiting for Dumbledore to do anything—several sessions of the Wizengamot had come and gone since the Welcome Feast, with Dumbledore presiding, without any mention of Sirius's case.

As he left the Chamber, though, he was greeted by a surprise that had his wand in his hand before his mind even caught up. Standing in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin in Harry's year. They had never spoken, but Harry had often gotten the impression that she didn't really care much for...well, anybody. She was about his height, with deep blue eyes and long chestnut-colored hair. Her current clothing—the mostly-shapeless Hogwarts school robes—concealed her figure, but Harry knew that she was quite fit, having seen her in a swimsuit down by the lake earlier in the term, on one of the last days before autumn turned cool.

"Whoa there, Potter," she said placatingly, holding her empty hands up. "I'm just here to talk."

"You've got a lot of nerve, coming to talk to me wearing that," Harry said coldly, aiming his wand at the "Potter Stinks" badge pinned to her robe.

"Come on, now," she said dismissively, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "You're a fourth year, you must know by now how things work around here. People think that Hufflepuff is the house of the sheep, but it's got nothing on Slytherin—it can be dangerous to go against the crowd in the dungeons. Right now, that means at least pretending to agree with Snape and Malfoy. They may be twats, but they're in charge."

"Fine, then. Talk, and be fast—I've got an important appointment in Hogsmeade."

"Hot date, Potter?" Daphne asked. Seeing that he was not amused—and suspecting that his meeting was more along the lines of actual business, given the hints Rita Skeeter's article had laid out—she cut the comedy and moved on. "Alright, then, I'll get to the point. You probably don't know this about me, but I like the outdoors. When it's warm enough, I go swimming. When it isn't, I like to hike."

"And this concerns me how, exactly?" Harry asked flatly.

"I'm getting to that. I don't usually incriminate myself, but somehow I think that you of all people won't tell Dumbledore or McGonagall about a little rule-breaking. When I go hiking, I go into the Forbidden Forest."

Daphne paused, expecting another snide comment from Harry, but he remained silent. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he knew where this was going, and if he was right, he might have a new ally.

"Anyway," she continued, "I was out hiking yesterday afternoon when I heard some...roaring. I was going to run, but I heard human voices, so I went to investigate. I reached a clearing, and...there were dragons."

Harry merely raised an eyebrow.

Surprised by his lack of reaction, she elaborated. "Four of them. Four dragons. Four champions. And the first task is coming up. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

Harry smiled. Finally, someone was on his side! "No, but thanks—I've actually known about the dragons for over a week, ever since the night of that big storm. I actually watched one of the dragons kill one of the handlers, and I've been training ever since."

"Do the other champions know?" she asked. "You didn't do something absurd, like go and tell them to be fair, did you?"

Harry snorted in response. "Of course I didn't; I'm done falling on my sword for these people. I expect that Karkaroff told Krum—he was a Death Eater, so I can't quite imagine him caring about cheating in a tournament—and Maxime might have told Fleur. I don't know if Cedric knows; if he does, good for him, and if he doesn't, then that's his problem. If he's so bloody great, he should be able to deal with it."

Harry turned and hissed in Parseltongue, closing the entrance to the Chamber. Daphne looked very interested to hear him speak Parseltongue, and a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"How did you know to find me here?" he asked. "I thought nobody else knew where the Chamber entrance was? I never heard its location in any of the rumors."

"True," Daphne replied. "But last year I had to hide from Filch in here, and Myrtle mentioned you. I put two and two together. And that was actually the only time I've ever heard Parseltongue, except for that one time in Lockhart's Dueling Club. Were you really trying to save that Hufflepuff?"

"Yeah," he replied, moving toward the door—after all, he did have someplace to be. "And he promptly repaid me by telling the whole school that I was a dark wizard trying to kill him. Some thanks, right?"

"And Dumbledore and the rest of the staff let it happen," she finished softly. "I get the feeling that last week's article was just the tip of the iceberg. Are you meeting Skeeter today?"

"You are a clever one, aren't you?" Harry teased, before a sudden impulse struck him. If he hadn't spent the last three weeks so alone, he probably would have never considered it, but as it was, he had finally found someone to take his side, and he didn't want to leave her behind. Plus, if he let her in on more secrets, there was every chance that she might become an actual friend. "Yeah, I'm meeting Skeeter, for another article. It's a big one. Come with me, and you'll get to find out before anyone else why Albus Dumbledore is about to lose his seat as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Harry meets the press!

Harry trains for the first task! Cue _Eye of the Tiger_.

Harry makes a new friend (kinda sorta maybe)! Daphne Greengrass (along with many of the other named but largely non-described students), is an extremely useful character for the aspiring fanfiction writer. She is a Slytherin, which allows for more Malfoy and Weasley conflict, and can be used to temper and counterbalance some of Harry's more irrational and self-destructive tendencies. Little is known about her, which means that she can be used to fill pretty much any position in a story. There is just enough canon information to show that Daphne exists—everything else is left up to the fanfiction author. In canon, Harry doesn't find out about the dragons until that night (late November 21, early November 22), two days before the first task; now, though, he sees them by chance much earlier, giving him much more time to prepare. As for Karkaroff and Maxime, they are both present that night, and immediately tell their respective champions (though I always thought it was absurd to think that they didn't know each of the tasks ahead of time—they're judges, and they all had a hand in arranging the tournament, after all).

Thanks for the insightful reviews—it seems that pretty much everyone thought that the penultimate section of chapter 22 kind of sucked, or at least it didn't work quite as I had intended. I meant it to be a sort of montage, to show his deteriorating relationship with Ron and Hermione between September 2 (the Snape Incident) and October 31 (the Goblet Incident). It's a safe bet that Harry pushed back at each of these affronts (particularly the one where Ron rummaged through his trunk), but I thought it would work better if I just included the increasingly-invasive actions of Ron and Hermione. Apparently, what I thought would be clever turned out to be a great example of why no author ever uses a written montage—it just doesn't really work. So, note to self: leave the montages in 80's movies, and don't publish anything you wrote while you were so tired that a montage seemed like a good idea.

The main problem that Harry has is that he can't really bring himself to confront Ron and Hermione, because they've gone and turned one little thing—his reluctance to discuss his summer vacation—into an inquisition that basically defines their relationship for the first two months of school, and he's afraid that if he tells them to basically fuck off, it might end their friendship. Harry's apparent lack of backbone when it comes to his friends is intentional—it's easy to "rage against the machine" when the machine is Dumbledore and Snape, who Harry believes are conspiring against him, but he's got a soft spot for Ron and Hermione that leads him down the road of appeasement, rather than nipping their nosiness in the bud. The irony is that now that the entire school thinks he cheated his way into the Tournament, his friends—who might otherwise have believed him—are so used to his platitudes and deception that they side with everyone else, so Harry would have been better served putting them in their place earlier.


	24. The First Task

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

Harry left the back room of the Three Broomsticks feeling exhausted. He had just spent nearly three hours telling Rita Skeeter everything that might discredit Dumbledore, from abandoning an infant Harry on a freezing doorstep, to his use of the Stone as bait for a Voldemort-possessed Quirrell, to his inaction in the face of the basilisk and Lucius Malfoy's manipulations, to the coup de grâce: failing in his duty as Chief Warlock to ensure a trial for Sirius Black, allowing an innocent man to spend twelve years in Azkaban. Worse, Harry lamented, was that even when Dumbledore knew Sirius that was innocent, he swept it under the rug instead of pushing Sirius's case in front of the Wizengamot.

Daphne had also been in the room; Harry had included her "as a witness, to ensure that the story is written truthfully," and Rita hadn't seemed to mind. Daphne had worn Harry's invisibility cloak down into Hogsmeade (it wouldn't do for them to be seen together), and Rita swore to keep Daphne's name out of her story. She had been suitably shocked about everything, especially Sirius's innocence—that alone, she had said, would be enough to shatter Dumbledore's hold over the Wizengamot, and would virtually guarantee that Sirius's name would be cleared.

"What now, Harry?" asked Daphne from somewhere to his left (she was wearing his cloak again) as they left the building.

"Well, I guess I go back to training for the dragon, and we wait for Rita's story to break," Harry responded. "I've got my plan pretty much worked out, but it can't hurt to get in a few more days of practice, especially since I'm going to take Tuesday off—I don't want to be too tired for the task the next day."

"Can I...I mean, do you want any help practicing?" she asked tentatively. "I've been curious about the Chamber of Secrets, and I'm sure I could help out."

"Sure, why not?" Harry replied, warmth spreading in his chest—it really did feel great having someone back on his side.

* * *

The rest of that weekend was spent in the Chamber; Harry mostly practiced his spellwork, and Daphne provided a surprisingly able assistant. Granted, she wasn't quite a dragon, but she was definitely helpful, and Harry was certain that her help might give him a better chance of getting through the first task unscathed.

For her part, Daphne had been shocked at how much Harry had improved his spellcasting, especially when compared to their classmates. He was easily at an OWL-, if not NEWT-level—though she didn't realize it, he had broadened his spell repertoire considerably over the summer, and he could always draw from the thunderbird for more raw power—and his month of incessantly practicing in isolation had boosted his skills even further. It was clear that he had been holding back in classes, only doing what he needed to complete the assignment as quickly as possible and then leave (even in Arithmancy, which he had just started this term)—she wouldn't be surprised if he was holding back even now, to keep her from knowing the full extent of his abilities. After all, that's what _she_ would do.

She was also quite impressed with the Chamber of Secrets. Winky had cleaned up the place; it was now a far cry from the slimy, dank pit that Harry had endured in second year. Winky had also removed the basilisk's remains, selling the parts off to various apothecaries and potions masters (with the exception of the venom and skin, which Harry had kept for himself), but the damage that the basilisk had caused—including a vast bite mark on a solid stone pillar—remained as a testament to its size and ferocity. If Harry could kill _that _with a sword at age twelve, then of any student, he would be the one who might stand a chance against a fully-grown dragon.

They didn't speak or meet again on Monday; Harry merely attended his classes and then disappeared to the Chamber to continue to train, largely ignoring the pandemonium that gripped the castle in the wake of Rita's article. However, after dinner on Tuesday, Daphne—knowing that Harry was taking the night off training—went to Myrtle's bathroom and knocked on the snake-engraved tap. It was the signal that they had worked out; if she knocked, Winky would pop up and take her down into the Chamber.

Harry was sitting in the study, finishing up a mirror-call with Remus and Sirius (both of whom were hopeful about the fallout from Rita's front-page article proclaiming Sirius's innocence). Just as he put the mirror down, Winky popped into the study, holding Daphne's hand.

"Master Harry sir, Miss Daphne is here," Winky announced.

"Hey Daphne," Harry said, a small smile curving his lips. "Winky, thank you very much. That'll be all for now."

Winky curtsied and disappeared with a slight "pop," leaving the two teens alone in the study.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Daphne asked.

"Yes, I think so. At least, as ready as I'm ever going to be. I suppose we'll find out either way tomorrow."

Harry and Daphne spent the next few hours alternating between companionable silence and quiet conversation. Once it was time for bed (Harry had a big day tomorrow, after all—people to see, dragons to fight), Harry called Winky to take Daphne back to her dorm.

As she prepared to leave, though, Daphne turned and gave Harry a quick hug and a light kiss on his cheek.

"Good night, Harry," she said softly. "And good luck tomorrow."

An instant later, she was gone, leaving Harry to his thoughts. As he rubbed his cheek, he remembered another goodnight kiss in early July, and what that had become.

"I guess I've got one more reason to survive tomorrow, then," he murmured, before lying down in his bed and falling asleep.

* * *

A sense of foreboding washed over Harry as he put his hand into the bag, knowing full well that only the vicious, man-killing Hungarian Horntail remained. As expected, his hand came out of the bag holding a small, animated model of the dragon, which bared its fangs and tried to bite his thumb. A tag with the number four hung around its neck; Harry was to go last, and would be facing a more powerful and dangerous dragon than the other three combined.

"Well, that's bloody fair," he muttered darkly.

Harry spent the next hour or so enduring the stares of the other champions, and listening to the roars of the crowd as first Krum, then Fleur, then Cedric faced their dragons. Finally, after Cedric's scores were posted, the crowd quieted, and the whistle blew. Harry stood, barely noticing as he pushed aside the fabric of the tent, and walked down the path through the trees and into the dragon enclosure.

Thousands of people stared at him from the stands that had been erected around the makeshift arena. Harry could pick out Remus, sitting with a large black dog, and Daphne over in the Slytherin student's section. His eyes moved over to the judges' booth—Dumbledore looked particularly worn (though the Wizengamot had not met yet to cast him out, it was more or less a done-deal, and Fudge had already stripped him of his ICW position).

Finally, a hissing scream that turned into an earsplitting roar drew his attention across the enclosure. There lurked the Hungarian Horntail, huge and serpentine, crouching protectively in front of its nest. Her leathery wings unfurled, showing their vast span—_it's trying to intimidate me, _Harry thought—and her spiked tail whipped back and forth, tearing long, wide gashes in the dirt. The huge, curved talons clenched into the ground, ripping up rocks as though practicing for Harry's flesh. Its bright acid-yellow cat-like eyes narrowed in fury, and the monstrous beast let loose another howling roar from its huge, fanged maw.

Harry's wand was in his hand. He had eschewed his holly and phoenix feather wand in favor of his oak and thunderbird feather wand; he needed every edge he could get, and for whatever reason, the oak wand (rather than the elder and thunderbird feather wand) _felt_ right for this fight. Though channeling magics didn't require a wand, using one could help, especially for this. His wand was a tangible link to his inner thunderbird, which was central to his plan.

With another deafening roar and a huge blast of flame, the battle was on. Harry stood tall, holding his wand out in front of him. He didn't try to dodge, and he didn't cast any spell to defend himself. The crowd let out a collective cry for him to do something, _anything_, but it was too late. Harry was engulfed in a swirling torrent of dragonfire hot enough to melt steel—he surely had no chance.

Hundreds of spectators screamed in terror, and scores (including Molly Weasley—the elder Weasleys had never really jumped on the "anti-Harry" bandwagon) fainted. Had Harry Potter really just allowed himself to be immolated? Was the Boy-Who-Lived...dead? Minerva McGonagall, for all the trouble the boy had put her through this term, was sobbing. Hagrid was moving his lips in voiceless horror, and Albus Dumbledore hoarsely whispered "no, no" over and over. Even Snape had no words—for all his cruelty toward the boy, for all his hatred of Sirius Black and James Potter, he had never wanted _this_.

Most wizards didn't fully understand what energy actually is—they cast their spells, and never really worry about the mechanics. However, the channeling magics that Morris Oshkosh had taught Harry over the summer required at least a basic understanding of the fundamentals of the topic, and Remus—who had once worked as an electrician, of all things—had refined his general understanding into something he could put into use.

When the stream of dragonflame rushed toward him, Harry channeled as he had never channeled before. He took the energy from the air—almost entirely heat—and shoved it through to his inner thunderbird, leaving only the magic inherent in dragonflame to splash about harmlessly (though it looked as though he was being engulfed in fire). The thunderbird was acting as a huge magical capacitor, soaking up the energy from the flames and storing it as electricity. The only question was whether the Horntail could output more energy than Harry could channel at once, or more energy than the thunderbird could store in total. Harry was already straining; if the flames grew more intense, or if the stream of dragonflame went on longer than the thunderbird could pack in the energy, he would be burned to death. This was a very all-or-nothing gambit.

Finally, the dragon ceased its attack, having run out of breath (or simply deciding that nothing could have survived the inferno). However, the flames continued to swirl around the spot where Harry had stood, as though caught in a small tornado. Of course, that was exactly what had happened. Harry had been unable to keep up with the dragon, but instead of giving up and burning to death, he had whipped the air around him into a cyclone. While he stood in the center, he was protected from the flames, and had more time to siphon away the energy of the dragon's attack.

As the flames finally died away, the spectators gasped—somehow, impossibly, Harry Potter still stood alive and unburned. His verdant eyes blazed, crackling with barely contained energy, and power rolled off of him in waves. He aimed his wand at the extremely surprised dragon (it was entirely beyond the beast's experience for anything to survive its flames), and _released._

As Harry understood capacitors (in this case, his inner thunderbird), they functioned much like clouds in a thunderstorm. They stored up electrical energy, and when they reached their maximum capacity, they discharged, and the result was lightning. This was no different; all of the energy that Harry had collected and shoved into the thunderbird blasted from the tip of his wand in a huge, crackling, blue-white bolt of lightning. The bolt tore through the air—loosing a massive crash of thunder whose shockwave blew over several trees surrounding the enclosure and almost toppled the stands full of spectators—and struck the dragon directly in the chest, right over its heart.

The raging thunderbolt continued streaming from Harry's wand for several seconds (not as long as the dragon's breath, but _much _more intense), and the dragon screeched in pain, its wings twisting, its limbs and tail thrashing around, and its eyes rolling around in their sockets. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry vaguely considered cutting off the blast to save the dragon, but he immediately dismissed the thought—he might only get one chance at this (after all, this trick it wouldn't save him from the dragon's teeth, claws, or tail), and pulling his only punch to try to knock out the dragon instead of killing it might get him killed instead. No, as unfortunate as it was, the dragon had to die; in fairness, though, this tactic was only possible because it had tried to kill him first. The thunderbird within screamed in approval, and Harry intensified his attack, moving in for the kill.

Finally, Harry's massive counterattack was finished, almost as suddenly as it had begun. The dragon convulsed one last time, then pitched over on its side, still twitching slightly.

"_Vitas revelio_," he incanted, panting for breath. The dragon's body did not emit a brief glowing aura; it was definitely dead. Harry walked across the enclosure, ignoring the roars of the crowd, and picked up the golden egg. Finally, he looked up to see Remus dancing with a dog, and all five judges sitting with their mouths open in shock. The dragon keepers rushed out to try to revive their Horntail, but Harry knew that it was a lost cause; the dragon's entire chest was practically charcoal, and its roasted heart was clearly visible.

Harry found himself dragged off to the medical tent by Madame Pomfrey, who began to frantically examine him for injuries; he stopped her when she tried to pull off all of his clothes. _That_ was going too far._  
_

"I'm quite sure I'm unhurt, Madame Pomfrey," Harry said. "Your other patients are all in much worse shape than I am."

It was true; he could see the occupants of the other beds. Cedric had bandages covering the burns on his face and right arm, and Fleur's left leg was covered in a sort of paste that Harry assumed was to treat whatever injury she had suffered. Krum didn't appear injured, but he did look a bit dazed—maybe he was in shock or something. Finally getting the point that Harry didn't need her hovering over him, Pomfrey bustled off to harass the other champions.

Moments later, Ron and Hermione darted into the tent, their eyes lighting up when they saw him. Hermione looked as though she had been crying, and Ron was practically glowing with excitement.

"Harry," Hermione moaned. "I can't believe you had to fight a dragon! We were all so scared. We thought you died!"

"Yeah, mate," Ron said. "You were ruddy brilliant, though, the best champion by far! It was so awesome when you...well, didn't die! We were behind you a hundred percent the whole time, you know that, right? Everyone believes you now."

After Hermione had spoken, Harry had almost, _almost_ forgiven them—she seemed like she had been genuinely concerned. But then Ron went and did what Ron had always done best: he said exactly the wrong thing. The warmth that had begun to spread through Harry's chest at Hermione's words froze at Ron's, and any hope of reconciliation shattered.

"Is that so?" Harry hissed coldly. "Even though literally nothing has changed that would prove one way or the other, you bloody people believe me now? Or maybe you're all just cowards trying to get back on my good side now that you've seen what I can do."

"Come on, mate—" Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

"You both nagged me for _months_ about my summer, the one thing that have ever I asked you to leave alone, the _one thing_ I've ever wanted to keep to myself," Harry said. "But I guess that was too much for you two, because you tossed me aside like I was garbage once the rest of the school turned on me. Even after all we've been through together, despite all I've done, you both turned traitor. Get the hell out of my sight."

White-faced (and with tears running down Hermione's cheeks), Harry's two former friends fled in fear; both had seen a dangerous, predatory glint in Harry's narrowed eyes. Harry had changed; the once mild-mannered teen had transformed when they had been looking elsewhere, and whatever he had become, it would not, _could not _grant forgiveness for their transgressions against him.

"Well said, Harry," Daphne said from behind him as they left the tent. "And I've gotta say, this cloak of yours is _incredibly _useful."

"Thanks. It belonged to my father. He and his friends used to get into all sorts of trouble with it—I guess I've kind of followed in his footsteps, except while he usually just pulled pranks, I always seem to get stuck saving the school from monsters and dark wizards."

"Well, let's go get your scores," Daphne replied. "And make sure you have a good explanation for killing the dragon—I don't think the judges are going to like that."

"Don't worry," Harry replied lightly. "I upgraded my research team—they told me everything I need to know about the rules. I'll be fine."

Ludo Bagman's voice suddenly boomed out. "Well...we have conferred, and are prepared to award Mr. Potter's scores. It has been decided that since Mr. Potter killed his dragon, he did not truly complete the task. Therefore, he will receive the minimum score of one point from each judge, for a total of five points."

The crowd, which had been silent for Bagman's speech, buzzed wildly. This was not entirely unanticipated; Remus had coached Harry on what to do if this happened. He put his wand to his throat, cast a quick _sonorous_, and spoke.

"In accordance with Rule 18, paragraph 2A of the Regulations section of the Triwizard Tournament Contract, I would like to appeal this ruling. In the event that a contestant believes that he has been judged unfairly due to differing interpretations of the task's objectives, the Goblet of Fire will determine that contestant's score."

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said tiredly. "The Goblet has gone out. You will accept your—"

"Actually," Crouch cut in (apparently he did know the rules backwards and forwards). "That is not true. In this case, the champion's memory will be dropped into the Goblet, and the Goblet will determine the score appropriately."

"While the Goblet of Fire is retrieved, I'd like to address the issue of the Hungarian Horntail," Harry spoke up again.

"Oh, that dragon that you killed?" Karkaroff snarked. "The dragon which was procured for this tournament at _enormous_ expense? The Triwizard Tournament committee takes cash and personal checks. I suggest you get out your pocketbook."

"Well actually, that won't be necessary," Harry replied, his lips turning up into a slight smirk. "Per Rule 81, paragraph 7, any creatures killed by a contestant are to be disposed of per the prevailing law of the land. In Britain, that would be the Magical Creature Hunting and Poaching Law of 1698. As our _esteemed_ Chief Warlock—" the crowd laughed, and Dumbledore's face colored—"is surely aware, section 4 of that law states that any magical creature which endangers or takes the life of a wizard or witch shall be exterminated by the Ministry of Magic. Failing that, any wizard or witch who exterminates said dangerous creature is entitled to its carcass and any and all proceeds consequent from the sale or use thereof. No exceptions exist, not even for ridiculous interscholastic tournaments. That dragon is mine."

"But surely zis boy cannot be allowed to keep ze dragon!" Maxime shouted. "Eet eez an outrage! Ze dragon should be sold, and the proceeds split between ze schools! A dragon carcass of zat size eez worth a fortune!"

"Too bloody bad," Harry said flatly. "That dragon belongs to me...that is, unless anyone wants to duel me for it? Of course, they'd have to put up equivalent stakes. Anyone willing to bet their life and their fortune on a duel with a guy who just killed a dragon with one spell?"

Absolute silence greeted Harry's challenge. "Didn't think so. My staff will deal with the carcass by sundown. Ah, there's the Goblet now."

Crouch showed Harry how to extract a copy of his memory of the fight; when Harry placed the silvery memory strand into the Goblet, a huge argent flame shot up. Moments later, the flame turned blood-red, and a ghostly number appeared in the air above the Goblet.

"And it appears that the Goblet of Fire has determined that our youngest champion's approach to the task warranted full marks!" Bagman shouted out, surprise tinting every syllable. "I guess that puts Mr. Potter in the lead, with fifty points!"

Harry gave a short bow, and strode out of the enclosure, with the still-invisible Daphne close behind. Moments later, he was engulfed in a strong hug from a tearful Remus.

"Oh Harry, I was terrified! Even though I knew your plan, when that fire hit you..."

"It's okay, Moony, I'm alright," Harry replied, touched by the man's obviously deep concern. "How did Padfoot hold up?"

"Badly," Remus said with a snort. "I'm pretty sure he didn't actually watch any of it—he just shoved his head under his paws and waited for it to be over."

"Ah, well, I'm sure we'll be able to show it to him in a pensieve at some point. Is he still around?"

"No, I made him apparate back home already—I was afraid he'd lose control and transform in front of everyone," Remus explained. "That article did us a lot of good, but he's not been proclaimed innocent quite yet. You'll have to call us later to reassure him that you're still in one piece."

"I will, Remus," Harry said seriously. Sirius was still suffering the lingering effects of his imprisonment at Azkaban; it wouldn't do to have him fall apart with worry over nothing. "I'll call tonight. In the meantime, I'd like to get back to the Chamber—I'm sure people are going to be looking for me to get back on my good side, and I don't feel like dealing with them right now."

"Ron and Hermione?"

"I've already dealt with them," Harry said, his eyes flashing angrily just from the memory. "I actually almost forgave them, but then I pulled my head out of my arse and sent them packing."

"Whatever works for you, Harry—Sirius and I will always have your back. And I'll send Dobby to help Winky with that dragon carcass. Maxime was right, that thing is huge; it's going to be worth a fortune."

"Thanks, Remus," Harry said, giving his kind-of-uncle a hug. "I'll call tonight, I promise."

As they walked back up to the school, with Harry making sure to dodge or scare off any potential conversations, Daphne told Harry what the other champions had tried. She was of the impression that Harry had been by far the most spectacular; going toe-to-toe with a dragon and coming out on top—even more, unscathed—was difficult to beat.

"I didn't realize you were that close with Professor Lupin," she said thoughtfully as they approached Myrtle's bathroom. "I mean, he was a really good teacher, but I never hear anything about you spending extra time with him."

"He was a really close friend of my parents, and he's also really close to my godfather," Harry explained. "He's kind of like a god-uncle or something. I didn't know him until last year, but he taught me the Patronus Charm when he saw how badly I was affected by dementors, and we've been close ever since."

"I'm glad, then—it'd be a shame if I was the only person on your side all this time. I guess that means that Remus and Sirius are that "research team" you were talking about before?"

"Yeah," Harry said with a grin. "It's like having Hermione, but with a lot more knowledge and some sense to back up her brain. Without them, I'd be dragon dung right about now."

"Well, I'm glad you're not," Daphne said, taking off the invisibility cloak as they finished their descent into the Chamber. "Fertilizing plants in Sprout's greenhouse would be such a waste of a wizard like you."

"A wizard like me, huh?" Harry asked, a teasing note in his voice as he preened a bit, doing his best Malfoy impression as he sat down in his favorite armchair in the study/

"Oh shut up, you prat," Daphne huffed, though her grin belied her pout.

Harry sat back, a satisfied smile growing across his face. He'd survived the first task, and now he got to live a little.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I hope my explanation of how Harry fought the dragon makes sense to everyone. I always like pulling in Remus's broad range of experience to help Harry, and this was kind of how I imagined Harry using the dragon's main strength against it. Dragons are tough opponents, and the only way Harry was going to beat it was by going full-thunderbird, by hitting it with some kind of cheap shot (like the Jersey Devil), or by using his brain and skills to turn the dragon's overwhelming power against it.

Why did the dragon have to die? Well, Harry's reasons are pretty good—if he pulls what might be his only punch, the dragon might not get knocked out, and then Harry ends up as dragon dung. Also, he's (subconsciously) biased toward finishing it off—the thunderbird sees the Horntail as a challenge, and wants to prove its superiority. Thunderbirds don't believe in half-measures, and it wanted to go all-in. Plus, the fact that a dragon carcass is worth a great deal of money certainly plays a role—Harry suspects that Remus is hoping he'll kill it, so they have more cash on hand (Harry is rich, but he can only access his school trust fund, and Sirius can't show up at the bank until he's cleared), and Harry doesn't really have a problem with that. Finally, the canon-Harry, who would be wracked with guilt over the dragon handler's death and the dragon's extermination, no longer exists. Harry has gone hand-to-hand with a demon, all of his friends have abandoned him, and he's on the outs with Dumbledore, whose failure to protect him has _once_ _again_ landed him in mortal danger. He's hardened, not just by the thunderbird, but by life—the way Harry sees it, he's going to survive, and anything that gets in the way is fair game.

Obviously, the rules and laws were completely made-up; however, I think they make sense. Remember, the last tournament was held in 1792, so the rules would be outdated compared to modern sensitivities. There was no magical ASPCA to look out for animals back then, and there really isn't one even now (which is why Hermione's SPEW is viewed as ridiculous), so this kind of "you keep what you kill" attitude seems appropriate.

"Vitas revelio" is made-up, and based on a spell from the books. Seems reasonable—it detects life. I suspect that Moody can't actually see through the invisibility cloak; rather, he is skilled at casting silent, wandless revealing spells, and does so constantly (and vigilantly).


	25. The Conquering Hunter

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The evening after the first task, Harry did not attend dinner in the Great Hall. After defeating the Hungarian Horntail so spectacularly and violently, he knew that Dumbledore and McGonagall would jump at the first chance to interrogate him about what magic he had used, and the headmaster would probably try something underhanded to get him to relinquish the dragon's carcass. That, Harry could not allow, as he planned to use it immediately.

Dobby and Winky had proven once again that house-elves are much more powerful than most witches and wizards realized, by having the carcass waiting for him in the Chamber by the time he sent Daphne away, shortly before dinner was to be served in the Great Hall. As much as he had begun to enjoy her company—particularly this afternoon, which mostly consisted of typical teenage snogging, as few things get the heart pumping quite like battling a dragon, and both teens had needed a bit of release—and was looking forward to spending more time with her, he needed the rest of the evening alone. Plus, both knew that they had to be careful with how often they were "missing" at the same time. It wouldn't do to have the knowledge of their association spreading.

Harry needed to be alone for the rest of the night in order to prepare for a powerful ritual that he had read about in _Shamanism_, by Tenskwatawa, which he had picked up in a Chicago bookstore (incidentally, just moments before a hag had tried to pull him into a side alley) along with several other texts on some of the different branches of magic he had heard about outside of Hogwarts. As described by Tenskwatawa, many Native American rituals centered on drawing on the energy from an animal, and the Exultation of the Conquering Hunter was no different. The ritual had only two requirements, and Harry's battle with the Horntail had satisfied them both. First, the wizard had to be in mortal danger—the magical beast in question had to be trying to _kill _him_,_ rather than simply escape, or scare him off. Second, the wizard had to use magic (rather than a weapon, magical or otherwise—therefore, the basilisk and the Jersey Devil couldn't be used for this ritual) to kill the beast. That was it, really. The ritual was rarely performed only because of the legal and practical difficulties involved in hunting down and killing a magical beast that was simultaneously dangerous enough to satisfy the requirements and powerful enough to grant a useful benefit.

The ritual had to start at sundown on the day he killed the beast, so he had to do it tonight, or not at all. Harry would have to start a ritual fire, and toss in the dragon's heart—bathed in his own blood—at exactly sundown. The fact that the heart had been mostly destroyed by lightning in the battle was actually helpful for the ritual, as it made for another link between the magic of the Hunter (Harry) and the Hunted (the dragon). The rest of the ritual was simple—Harry would drink a ram's horn of the dragon's blood, and then spend the rest of the night sitting in front of the ritual fire, high as a kite.

The best part of this particular ritual was that the only sacrifice Harry would have to make would be the blood he'd use to cover the dragon's heart; the rest of the power was supplied by the death of the dragon. Thus, when he awoke in the morning, it would be an aspect related to the dragon's death that would flow through Harry's veins. He suspected that it would be an increased affinity for channeling fire, as it had been the dragon's own flames that had powered his devastating attack that dealt the Horntail a mortal blow.

So, with Gadsden and Hedwig looking on, Harry set up a campfire in the middle of a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, which he surrounded with a series of simple but increasingly-dangerous perimeter wards. After he lit the campfire, he cut open his palm, dripped blood onto the dragon's charred heart (which Winky had helpfully removed from the Horntail's ruined chest cavity), and used a small paintbrush to ensure that every bit of the heart's surface was fully covered. At the moment that the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Harry dropped the bloody heart into the campfire, which promptly flared a brilliant blue-white, the precise hue of the lightning that had taken the Horntail's life. As an orange-red tint—the precise shade of the Horntail's flame—began to creep into the blazing fire, Harry drank deeply from a ram's horn full of blood (which Dobby had squeezed from the dragon's heart right after Winky removed it from the dragon).

Harry finished his drink, and felt the dragon's blood practically burn its way down his throat. The ritual was complete. His inner thunderbird screamed in triumph, celebrating that it had destroyed a powerful foe and was taking its rightful spoils—its prey's own power—as the victorious hunter. Thunder rumbled around the grounds of Hogwarts, and over a mile away, the three surviving dragons laid their heads against the ground in submission.

* * *

A man who looked very much like Alastor Moody drummed his fingers against his hip flask before taking a thoughtful swig, ensuring that he would continue to look very much like Alastor Moody for another hour.

He was having disturbing thoughts about the events of the first task; specifically, how Harry Potter had brushed off his advice about trying to out-fly the dragon, instead opting to destroy the beast in what might have been the most dramatic manner possible. The magic the boy had used had been immensely powerful, and he hadn't even seemed tired afterward. Assassinating Potter as an infant had been the right decision in 1981, even if a stroke of bad luck had prevented the mission's success. Such foresight about the potential power of a future adversary was even more proof of his master's omniscience, though the result of that night proved that he was still at least partly vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—and what outrageous fortune it had been!

Barty Crouch, Junior shook himself from his thoughts, scanning the tables in the Great Hall with Moody's magical eye. He was surprised that the boy had not chosen this night, the night of his great triumph in defiance of all expectations, to return to visibility among the school. It would have sent a powerful message to those who had doubted him, and Crouch—who knew first-hand that the boy had not actually entered himself into the tournament—knew that as a boy, he himself would have taken the opportunity to gleefully shove such a spectacular victory in his detractors' faces. As powerful as Potter was magically, he clearly did not understand what it was to gain power over others. Crouch allowed himself a smug internal grin, knowing that the Dark Lord would be able to crush Potter like an insect, and his own loyal service would make it all possible.

* * *

Harry awoke the next morning at dawn, feeling quite well-rested, especially compared to the other campfire rituals he had performed back in Wisconsin. As he began his morning routine (mostly with his wand, as there were neither sinks nor showers in the Forbidden Forest), he noticed that his movements were stronger, surer, and more precise. Was that a side effect of the ritual? Suddenly worried about other possible effects, he stripped naked and checked his body from head to toe in a hastily-conjured mirror—after all, it would be just his luck to have started growing scales or a tail. Thankfully, though, there were no outward signs of change, except perhaps a slight increase in height and greater muscle tone. It was possible, then, that he had merely gained in physical prowess, a subtle but potentially extremely useful benefit.

Between the nutrient potions from that summer, the effects of the thunderbird transformation, and now the Hunter ritual, Harry was quickly becoming quite a specimen. Harry had never been particularly vain, but he was rather pleased with his new appearance, and it certainly didn't hurt that Daphne seemed to like it, if her wandering hands the previous afternoon were any judge.

Moments later, Harry realized that he should have known he was wrong the instant he thought of the word "subtle"—nothing in his life had ever been subtle, and it certainly wasn't going to start now. As he went to pick up his clothes (in his brief panic, he had tossed his clothing everywhere) he stumbled over the remains of the campfire, falling into the embers. The still-glowing embers. The embers that _should_ be melting his exposed skin, but which felt merely pleasantly warm.

"Well, that's new."

* * *

Hogwarts was still buzzing about the first task the previous day, when a sudden hush fell over the Great Hall. Harry Potter had just entered the room.

Seemingly ignoring the stares of the staff and students, Harry walked nonchalantly to the intersection between all four house tables and glanced around, looking for an acceptable place to sit. The Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were obviously out, both houses having been far too unfriendly to him over the last several weeks, and Ravenclaw was already full. That left Hufflepuff, which would have been good if a seat next to Cedric had been open—Harry figured it would be good for his PR image if he could be observed chatting amiably with his fellow champion—but it was not to be. He allowed himself a brief frown, took out his wand, and gave it a casual wave.

Students and staff alike gasped in surprise as the central intersection was suddenly occupied by a large, sturdy booth which looked as though it had been taken directly out of a 1950's-style American diner, but which in reality was an exact replica of his and Annie's booth from the back corner of the Great White Bear Inn. He sat down, snorting in amusement at their collective reaction—after all, they had seen him blow away a dragon with one spell, and now they were surprised by a little bit of transfiguration? Though in fairness, he considered, he had transfigured the air into the booth, so it looked like had performed conjuration, a much more difficult feat. Food appeared on a plate in front of him and he set about eating his breakfast, making a mental note to thank Winky for remembering to give him orange juice (he had had enough pumpkin juice to last a bloody lifetime) and coffee (students generally were not served coffee at Hogwarts, and several nearby upperclassmen were shooting envious looks at his steaming mug).

The morning post arrived in a flurry of feathers and beaks. Hedwig arrived bearing a letter (sent to Grimmauld Place via the USPPS—United States Portkey Postage Service—and forwarded to Hogwarts by owl) from Annie, and several owls arrived from the various periodicals available in magical Britain, all asking for interviews. Finally, the _Daily Prophet_ arrived, and Harry put aside his letters for Winky to secure back at the Chamber. He glanced down at the front page, and grinned. After the first task, he and Daphne had put together a few quick quotes for Rita Skeeter, and sent them via Hedwig. Apparently, she had decided to paint him favorably, and Dumbledore...somewhat less so.

_**Dragonslayer Potter! **_

_**Boy-Who-Lived Crushes First Task and Unfair Judges, Quotes Law to Lawmaker, and Schools the Headmasters!**_

The full-color photo (rare, in wizarding Britain, and only used for special occasions) showed Harry enveloped in flames, then cut to him blasting the dragon with lightning. Harry skimmed the article, before moving on to what he considered much more important news, on the second page.

_**Dumbledore to Answer to Wizengamot Tomorrow, Dismissal Likely. Who Will Be New Chief Warlock?**_

This article was merely the latest in Rita's ongoing series; since her first article after the Wand Weighing, she had continued to hound Dumbledore, chipping away at the mystique with which he had surrounded himself. Before the first task, Fudge had used the verified contents of her articles to strip Dumbledore of his seat in the ICW; now, the Wizengamot would be meeting in a full session to determine whether Dumbledore would remain their leader. With public opinion overwhelmingly against him, Rita was right; his ejection from the Wizengamot was virtually guaranteed, and it would take a great deal of effort to keep himself from ending up on trial.

Even better, Rita speculated that the next Chief Warlock would be the venerable and fearsome Augusta Longbottom. She would have seniority in the Wizengamot once Dumbledore was ousted, and her no-nonsense approach and pureblood status made her an acceptable compromise to all factions. Plus, she was quite old, and the general feeling (which of course went unsaid) was that if she was unsatisfactory, she'd probably die in a few years anyway, so they wouldn't be stuck with her for long. Harry didn't care about that; rather, he only really cared that she had already spoken out—at length—against Dumbledore for failing to secure Sirius a trial, and had stated that if he was given a trial and found innocent, the Ministry and Dumbledore would both be personally held liable to compensate him for his years in Azkaban and as a fugitive.

The dull roar of conversation in the Great Hall suddenly died down again, right as Harry finished reading. He looked up to see Dumbledore and McGonagall standing next to his booth.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said quietly. He looked even more worn-down than he had at the first task. Apparently, he had already read Rita's article. "I'm glad to see you in the Great Hall again."

"Well, it was getting a bit too quiet where I have been taking my meals, and as much as I enjoy his company and conversation, my snake is not the best dining companion," Harry said casually, before gesturing to the booth across the table. "Would you care to take a seat, professors?"

McGonagall looked suspiciously at the booth, but sat down resignedly after Dumbledore slid into the center without hesitation. It was a good thing that Harry had invited them; if they had just sat down, they would have been shocked and ejected from the booth. Harry decided to leave that tidbit for some jealous students to find out the hard way.

"I must say, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "This is very impressive—conjuration as a fourth year! Have you been holding back in your classes?"

"Ah, that," Harry replied, grinning, before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. "It was actually just transfiguration; the whole "conjuration" thing was just a bit of theater. I still have a bit of trouble with conjurations of this size and complexity; it's something I'd like to work on, but much of my time has been spent preparing for the tournament."

At the mention of the tournament, Dumbledore's face appeared to tighten, and he didn't call Harry out on not actually answering McGonagall's question; apparently, he was still smarting over the verbal beat-down Harry had delivered after taking down the dragon.

"Speaking of the tournament," the headmaster said lightly, "the magic you employed in the first task was...impressive. In fact, nobody—myself included—can quite work out what exactly you did or how you did it. You've got a lot of people very curious."

"Well, professor, I don't see much point in trying to explain it," Harry replied. "Because this year, nobody seems to be interested in believing anything I say." More than a few students and staff members—including Dumbledore and McGonagall—winced at this; their collective cruelty toward Harry over the Goblet Incident would hang over them for a long time, and the rumors of his confrontation with Ron and Hermione in the medical tent made it clear that Harry was not in a very forgiving mood.

"Harry...I see that you've read Rita's other article already," Dumbledore said slowly. Harry merely raised an eyebrow, wondering where this was going, so Dumbledore continued. "I was hoping to talk to you about that issue."

There it was. Harry had gotten the ball rolling on Dumbledore's fall from grace, and now the headmaster wanted him to stop it again.

"Ah, I see," Harry said scornfully, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. "You want me to save you."

"Harry, is all of this truly necessary? I know that you are feeling hurt and abandoned, but taking it out on me will not bring you closure. Please, stop all this—a word from you would keep me in the Wizengamot, and I can keep working for the greater good. If you just trust me, I can get Sirius his trial."

Harry laughed harshly, and the sound echoing thunderously throughout the otherwise-silent Great Hall reminded him that hundreds of people were hanging on every word. He didn't care—Dumbledore had just handed him an opportunity on a silver platter, and he was going to swing for the fences. McGonagall saw the look in Harry's eyes and braced herself—the last time she'd seen that look, Harry had thrown her arguments back in her face and resigned from Gryffindor. She suddenly looked as though she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Headmaster, you continue to astound me," Harry said. His voice was low, but everyone in the Great Hall heard every word. "Every time I think that you can't possibly be more arrogant and self-righteous, you manage to up the ante."

"But what about—"

"Oh, our old friend Tom Riddle? Tell me, what use have you ever been against him? You sat in your school and sent your brainwashed teenagers off to fight and die, but what did you actually do? With all your power, all your skill, did you ever even take the field? Hell, _professor,_ you practically did everything you could to _make_ Riddle into Voldemort, and then you tried again with me!"

"I needed to protect Hogwarts, Harry! You know as well as I do, _better_ than I do, what this school meant to him!"

"And there's my question, evaded! You claim to be a supporter of muggleborn rights, but with all your power and influence, the Ministry still screws them, and you do nothing! You claim to be against dark wizards, but you don't fight them unless it's convenient, and then you go and hire them! Your pet Death Eater abuses and legilimizes students, especially me, every bloody day, and you do nothing, but then you're surprised when I don't just fall into line? And you want me to just trust you, because you promise you'll get around to giving my godfather a trial, which you should have done thirteen bloody years ago?!"

Harry's voice had been steadily rising, and he was now practically shouting in Dumbledore's face, which was rapidly paling. McGonagall had shrunk back and sunk down in the booth, desperately hoping that Harry wouldn't turn his anger toward her; she, too, had her failings, particularly when it came to supporting Dumbledore against Harry's best interests, and Harry's resignation from Gryffindor had already dealt her reputation a sharp blow. Thankfully, his attention remained on the headmaster, and his tone suddenly dropped to a cold, venomous hiss.

"The worst part is that you still think that this is just about Sirius, and if you suddenly deliver, then I'll go back to being your little pet savior. You have failed and betrayed our society in general and me personally, over and over again, for _years_, and you would have kept doing it. All I did was pull back the curtain, _sir._ Once the rest of magical Britain saw what was behind it, they realized for themselves that you need to go. You can twinkle your bloody eyes all you want, or look at me like a sad, disappointed grandpa, but I can't save you, and even if I could, I wouldn't, because you don't deserve it. If there's any justice in this bloody country, you'll end up in Azkaban where you belong."

Harry stood abruptly, finally noticing the stares of the rest of the school, and finding that he didn't care in the slightest.

"Professor McGonagall, I'll see you in transfiguration. Professor Dumbledore, I suggest that you enjoy your time in office, because you won't be Chief Warlock by the weekend. And tell Snape that the next time he tries to break into my mind, my...reply...will make what I did to the Horntail look tame by comparison."

During the course of their conversation, Harry had detected and deflected several legilimency probes against his mind, looking for a way in. The probes had a familiar..._greasiness_...that meant they could only have come from Snape. Harry saw Susan Bones writing furiously—it was of course illegal to use legilimency on people, especially minors, and Harry had referenced it twice. Susan's aunt (who was the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement) would undoubtedly want to hear about it, and Harry would get the satisfaction of putting Snape in hot water with the law. He could also see Karkaroff and Maxime at the staff table shooting sly grins at each other—as much as they didn't appreciate Harry's impertinence after the first task, they were always happy to see Dumbledore taken down a few notches.

Concerning himself no further, Harry strode from the Great Hall. After all, it wouldn't do to be late for Transfiguration.

* * *

Shortly before going to bed that night, Harry rolled up the scroll and turned off the mirror. That was that; the Yule Ball was not mentioned as part of the "binding magical contract," and Remus had turned up numerous examples of past champions skipping it, so Harry had no intention of going, regardless of how much McGonagall insisted. She had intended to announce the Yule Ball in two weeks, but instead had done so in her Transfiguration classes that day, to ensure that everyone had time to find a date. In light of the clue from the golden egg, he figured that the judges would probably use whoever he took as his date as the thing he'd "sorely miss," and he would rather not make things easy for them. The only person he would want to take to the ball would be Daphne, but they were still keeping their association a secret, and he didn't want to get her shanghaied into the Tournament. Granted, he had no intention of telling anyone but Daphne that he wasn't going to the Yule Ball; much better to have it be an unpleasant surprise, just as the nature of the second task had been only hours before.

Harry had not taken long to figure out the "riddle" of the golden egg. Once he took a few minutes to examine it after classes that afternoon, he noticed traces of elemental magic on it. Thanks to Morris's lessons, he was able to identify that "water" was practically written all over the egg. With a shrug, he had tossed it into the Chamber's bathtub, dunked his head, and opened the egg.

_Come seek us where our voices sound,_

_We cannot sing above the ground,_

_And while you're searching ponder this;_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_

_An hour long you'll have to look,_

_And to recover what we took,_

_But past an hour, the prospect's black,_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back._

It was obvious to him that the "it" would be a person; Harry expected that in the absence of a Yule Ball date to kidnap, Dumbledore would pick Ron or Hermione, or perhaps Ginny (as Harry had risked his life to save hers back two years ago). He had nearly three months before the second task to figure out a plan, and ideas were already swirling around in his head; he was certain that between Sirius, Remus, and Daphne, he would cruise through the task with no major problems.

* * *

**Author's Note**

The merpeople's song is courtesy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, page 463. I think quoting this falls under fair use. Either way, if your name is JK Rowling, please don't sue me.

Sorry about the long time (seven whole days!) between chapters; it was one of _**those**_ weeks at work, and then my free time was dominated by _Skin Game_ (the new Dresden Files book by Jim Butcher). If you're unfamiliar with that series, stop what you're doing and start reading them, right now. They're unbelievably good, and if you're the kind of person who reads Harry Potter fanfiction (which you are), you're precisely the audience that would love the Dresden Files. I mean, come on, it's about a wizard who is (nominally) a hard-boiled private detective in Chicago. _It literally does not get more awesome than that. _Only huge amounts of self-control kept me from having Harry Potter and his gang run into Harry Dresden and his...shenanigans...during their trip to Chicago. I suppose the grabby hag will have to do. Once I've got a few HP-fics under my belt, perhaps I'll consider writing a fic based on the Dresden-verse.

I noticed that I made a slight timeline error in chapter 24; basically, I inadvertently made the first task take place on Wednesday the 25th, instead of Tuesday the 24th. I think it's minor enough that it doesn't matter—especially in the face of a competent Harry who is able to figure out the egg's clue almost immediately—so I'll just roll with it rather than go back and fiddle with it.

And thanks, Frog1, for your insight. In fact, I originally considered having Harry start out in New York instead of Philadelphia, visit the Statue of Liberty (rather than the Franklin Institute and Independence Hall), and be inspired by that very poem. I ended up scrapping that idea because I didn't want this to become a "Harry moves to America" story, which would have been the inevitable result of a sufficiently-meaningful Ellis Island visit—Lady Liberty (and New York in general) is just too symbolic of immigration from the "ancient lands" to be used in a story that doesn't end up with Harry striking off on his own for good. I thought that Philadelphia was a good compromise, as it could symbolize independence from Dumbledore/Britain without having the "fuck Britain, I'm here to stay" connotation of NYC. I do put actual thought into the broader aspects of this story, as much as I'm winging the details.


	26. The (Other) Unexpected Tournament

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The remaining days of term came and went with little fanfare, with the exception of Dumbledore's tribulations with the Wizengamot. After his expulsion on Friday, November 27, Harry had floo-called Augusta Longbottom, the new Chief Warlock, about securing his godfather's freedom; his tone had conveyed the urgency of his request, and his assurance of continued friendship between the Potters and Longbottoms contained just enough of a threat of _unfriendliness _(such as the kind that had seen Dumbledore fall from grace so spectacularly) that she immediately arranged for Sirius to be questioned by Amelia Bones, the head of the DMLE. A few questions with veritaserum (under Remus's watchful eye) later, he was a free man by the end of the day; Amelia immediately dropped all charges, and began printing "Wanted: Dead or Alive" (wizarding justice was often unambiguously...biblical) posters for Peter "Wormtail" Pettigrew.

Remus and Sirius had thrown a party that very night, and Harry had managed to make an appearance. During the pandemonium at Hogwarts following the Wizarding Wireless News's announcement of Dumbledore's expulsion from the Wizengamot and Sirius Black's subsequent clearing of all charges, Harry had snuck out through the Shrieking Shack, then apparated back to Grimmauld Place. After recovering from a tear- and prank-filled night, Harry dragged himself back to Hogwarts the next afternoon, and Daphne was pleased to see that he couldn't get the smile off his face for the rest of the day.

* * *

As the end of term approached, Harry was asked to the Yule Ball by several girls, including Ginny Weasley, Susan Bones, Padma Patil, and Katie Bell. However, he politely declined each advance, without giving any indication as to who he would be escorting. Thus, Harry's date to the dance became the new hot topic for the Hogwarts rumor mill—apparently, once Dumbledore had been ejected from the Wizengamot, all the juicy gossip about him had dried up, and the twittering witches had moved back to their old standby: Harry Potter.

"It's like they have no grasp on reality," Daphne commented, closing the latest issue of _Teen Witch Weekly_, which maintained that Harry would be attending the Yule Ball with the entire Veela mascot squad from the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team. "And why do they even care so much?"

"Because they are idiots," Harry grunted between spells. He was practicing channeling fire and lightning at the same time, and it took a great deal of concentration. Harry had noticed that after the Hunter ritual, he could channel fire nearly as well as he could channel lightning, which was an extremely useful development. He had more or less let Daphne in on most of his secrets, with the exception of his animagus form and his relationship with Annie Oshkosh; she was actually much easier to talk to than Ron or Hermione, since she would actually let him finish speaking without interrupting indignantly or with incessant questions. She had been extremely interested in learning how to channel environmental magic, and Harry had been slowly instructing her. True to her loving of the outdoors, she proved to be quite adept at manipulating earth, water, and plants—arguably even more so than Harry—after only a few attempts.

With the help of Remus, Sirius, and Daphne, Harry had worked out several different possible approaches to the second task. He had even procured gillyweed via owl-order, and scouted the lake; it was clear from his brief but informative conversations with the merpeople that the four hostages would be tied to a large mermaid statue in the center of their village, and Dumbledore had negotiated with them to keep the hostages safe from any of the dangers in the lake (the one-hour time limit, then, was simply to lend a sense of urgency; he was assured that the merpeople had been instructed to bring the hostages back to the surface after that limit was exceeded).

Remus's suggestion was straightforward—use gillyweed again, and simply swim to the village, untie his hostage, and swim back, and just kill anything that got in the way. It didn't have much pizzazz, but it would be an excellent fallback. Sirius's plan was to use a bubblehead charm and make use of his thunderbird's inherent apparition abilities to flash to the village, untie his hostage, and flash back; of course, this would have the side effect of exposing him as having a thunderbird animagus form (after all, anyone could do a bit of research), so it was definitely his last resort—in fact, he decided that he would rather lose the task than expose his animagus form. Daphne wanted him to cast a strong compulsion charm on the giant squid, and have it grab his hostage and deposit it on the shore—it was functional, but Harry was worried that the only charm he could cast powerfully enough to control such as large magical creature would be the Imperius Curse, and he wanted to avoid looking too much like a dark wizard. Harry hadn't told the others about his own scheme, because it was still in the planning stages; if he could get it working, it would be spectacular, and have the side effect of making the other champions look completely inadequate.

Vanishing the rubble from several exploded target dummies (which Winky was making by the dozens these days), Harry flopped down on the sofa (which Winky had helpfully put into the main part of the Chamber) next to Daphne. In an instant, a cold glass of water appeared next to his hand. Winky really was an excellent house-elf, Harry thought as he drank the water. Barty Crouch, Senior must have been insane to dismiss her.

"Who are you going to the ball with?" he asked. He felt more than a little jealous; after all, he and Daphne had been snogging since the first task, and their encounters had slowly been becoming increasingly daring and intimate. Both teens were rapidly becoming quite fond of each other, and were regretting the necessity of keeping their burgeoning relationship hidden—not that they cared what the public would think; rather, Harry wanted to keep Daphne out of the tournament, so they would need to remain incognito until at least the second task had passed—as doing so significantly cut down on the amount of time they could spend together.

"Anthony Goldstein," she said with a shrug. "He's alright, I guess; at least I know he won't try to get fresh with me, since I'm pretty sure he _really_ would rather go to the dance with Terry Boot."

Harry blinked in surprise. He had heard of those preferences, but he had never really put much thought toward the possibility; such a thing was rare enough in the muggle world, but in magical Britain, it was almost unheard-of. "Huh. Really?"

"Yep," Daphne confirmed. "And you should hear what those boys say about _you—_power is an aphrodisiac, you know, and you put on quite a display with that dragon."

Harry's jaw dropped open, and after a beat, he clapped his hands over his ears. "Nope. Too much information. You stop that!"

Daphne laughed. Her laugh, Harry noted distractedly, was high and clear, like the ringing of a bell. He suddenly had the urge to "get fresh with her" himself. Thankfully, Daphne shared his enthusiasm.

* * *

At breakfast on the last day of term, Harry received a large, book-shaped package. Slightly irritated at himself for forgetting to tell Winky to take delivery of all of his packages (he had told her to route his mail to him at breakfast), he opened it to find a large, leather-bound book and note from Jacob Crane.

_Dear Harry,_

_I've been keeping up with you in the press (well, as much as the Daily Prophet counts as actual press), and I must say that I'm quite impressed by your takedown of that dragon. It's a rare wizard who can go toe-to-toe with a beast like that and walk away alive, let alone without a scratch. _

_Anyway, you should find enclosed a first-run printing of the newest edition of my family's text, **On Combating the Darker Forces of this Earth and Beyond.** It's a family tradition that any outside contributor is entitled to a signed copy of the text and a small percentage of the book's sales, which will be deposited directly into your Gringotts account. The updated chapter thirteen has already gotten fantastic reviews, and several law enforcement organizations have benefited from your contribution and the memory you provided. If you ever find yourself back in the States and need a way to spend your time, stop by the Franklin Institute—I'm sure we'll be able to find a place for you there._

_Wishing you a merry Christmas, and a happy New Year,_

_Jacob Crane_

Harry smiled, quite pleased with the gift, and flipped through the book briefly to take note of which sections had been updated (apparently, all of them had). He had long since realized that once his name was in print, someone would eventually get word to Dumbledore, so he was no longer particularly concerned about concealing his summer activities. Several students at the adjacent tables took note of the title of the book that Harry was apparently quite happy to have received, and Harry knew that the jig would be up by the end of the holiday. He steadfastly ignored Hermione's piercing stare (the one she got when she was trying to figure something out), and knew that she would make it her mission to find out before the Yule Ball. Not that it mattered; he would be spending the holiday far away from Hogwarts with Remus and Sirius.

Since very few students of fourth year and above were actually going home for the holiday, there would be a relatively large contingent at Hogwarts, and nobody seemed to have any real idea of how to pass the time between the end of term and Christmas. Viktor Krum, of course, had an idea that the Weasley twins seized upon immediately.

"Quidditch! Quidditch, Harry!" Fred and George practically shouted as they slid to a halt in front of his booth in the Great Hall. Harry slipped the book and note into his bag, gestured invitingly to the seats—the other students (and hilariously, Professor Trelawney) had learned very quickly not to sit in Harry's booth without an invitation—and the twins sat down, panting from their sprint from...wherever they had been.

"Krum wants to play a pickup tournament tomorrow!" one twin said breathlessly. "And—"

"—the best part is that each champion will be captain of their own team!" interrupted the other, pointing at Harry.

"What do you say, Harry!" both cried out, putting on their best pleading puppy-dog faces.

Harry, who had been watching the twins' antics with a bemused look on his face, sat quietly for a moment, letting them—and the entire Great Hall, which was watching with bated breath—dangle. Finally, he gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine, I'm in."

* * *

The next morning, Harry found himself standing on the Quidditch pitch with the other three champions, and a line of about thirty prospective players. Most of the remaining students and staff were watching from the stands. In a scene uncomfortably reminiscent of the first task, Madame Hooch had the captains choose a folded piece of parchment with a number written on it, to determine who got the first draft pick. In a stunning reversal of his typical fortune, Harry's piece had a bold number one written on it.

"Fred Weasley," Harry chose immediately. He knew that Cedric actually quite disliked George after an incident the previous year (both had gone after the same girl, and at one point nearly came to blows; George still hounded Cedric with pranks mercilessly almost a year later), and the foreign champions wouldn't realize how well the twins worked together, so he was virtually guaranteed to get both.

And so he did. A few minutes later, Harry sat in the stands with his team: Fred and George as Beaters, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia as Chasers, and Tracey Davis as Keeper. He had been fortunate to grab the Gryffindor Chasers, who were extremely good, and Daphne had given him an inside tip about her friend Tracey; apparently she was a Quidditch fanatic on the level of Oliver Wood, but the Slytherin team didn't allow girls. Ron had had the gall to be put out at not being chosen as Harry's Keeper; in fact, he had shouted, red-faced, at how Harry was "mental" to break up what would have been an all-Gryffindor team in favor of a "slimy Slytherin" (conveniently forgetting that Harry himself was no longer a Gryffindor), before stomping off to the stands, completely ignorant of the many snickers and rolled eyes that accompanied his departure.

As Harry had anticipated, Cedric filled his team with Hufflepuffs (and Cho Chang, Cedric's girlfriend and date to the Yule Ball), Viktor chose several of his friends from Durmstrang, and Fleur packed her team with Beauxbatons students (and Roger Davies, who would apparently accompany her to the Yule Ball). The first match would be between Fleur and Viktor, then Cedric and Harry would play, and the winners of the two games would play each other for the final.

Viktor led his team into the air, followed immediately by Fleur and her team; already, Harry knew that Viktor's victory was practically a foregone conclusion. Fleur and her friends from Beauxbatons didn't play organized Quidditch, instead only having scrimmage matches every once in a while, and the French students were also clearly having problems in the cold (warming charms were, of course, prohibited in standard play), being much more accustomed to the relative warmth of the south of France. The Durmstrang students, though, were perfectly at home in the cold (Scottish winters were practically balmy compared to those in Scandinavia), and Krum was an international-level Seeker. His friends obviously weren't at his level, but they were quite good, and simply having Krum in the air clearly had huge effects, both practically and psychologically.

Viktor was a very active Seeker, constantly swooping down to disrupt the French Chasers, which helped his own Chasers take possession and inevitably score. Fleur, though, was still a fairly good flyer, and managed to rally her other Chasers to score a few goals on Viktor's Keeper. However, it was quickly becoming clear that Chaser play would not save the French, and Viktor Krum was literally out of Roger Davies's league. After only about fifteen minutes of play, the score stood 80-30; Krum casually snagged the Snitch, ending the game and knocking Fleur's team out of the running.

After a brief break, during which the Hogwarts house-elves ran ran through the stands frantically handing out hot cocoa, it was time for the next match. Harry didn't bother giving his team a pep talk; rather, he had simply stared at them and growled at them to win (the "or else" was left unsaid, but was nevertheless heard loud and clear). After a slight pause, the Weasley twins cracked up, and the team had bustled onto the pitch and into the air. Harry and Cedric shook hands, and flew up themselves.

Harry hadn't been on a broom in several weeks; he had been going out to fly at night as a thunderbird and working on controlling his impulses (that is, flying around without causing storms), and compared to that, a broom—even one as fantastic as a Firebolt—was something of a letdown. Nevertheless, he rocketed around the pitch as fast as ever, scanning for the Snitch, feinting around Cho (Cedric had bowed to his girlfriend's wishes and put her as Seeker; a poor choice, Harry thought, as Cedric was much better than Cho) and diving into Chaser formations. He didn't even need to manipulate the air currents; he could feel them, and instinctively took advantage of every thermal, every gust of wind, and even every bit of turbulence. Cho simply couldn't keep up. Fred and George happily blasted Bludger after Bludger at the entire "HuffleClaw" squad; combined with Harry's constant harassment, Cedric's Chasers were rendered almost entirely ineffective, and Angelina, Katie, and Alicia practically ran the pitch, taking advantage of the teamwork and chemistry built over several seasons of playing together.

Cedric was a skilled flyer, and he had a good build for a Keeper, but his relative inexperience at the position was costing him dearly, with Harry's experienced Chasers racking up goal after goal. With Fred and George monopolizing the Bludgers, Cedric's Beaters were virtually powerless to help defend against Harry's Chasers. Soon, the score was a whopping 110-10 (an errant Bludger had caused Tracey to miss a Quaffle; her subsequent fury had scared Fred and George into upping their defensive game even further), and Harry spotted the Snitch hovering a few feet above the snow-covered ground, directly under Tracey's hoops. He shot off toward it, blasting past Cho, who had been looking in the wrong direction, and caught the Snitch in his left hand as it tried to dodge upward.

Cedric was as gracious in defeat as he had been in victory the previous year (when Harry had been knocked out of the air by swarming dementors), and after a few "good game" handshakes, the teams and spectators all took a break for lunch.

"That was brilliant," Tracey squealed, bouncing in her seat as she bit into her sandwich. "Oh, I wish stupid Flint would let me on the Slytherin team. Playing for real is so much fun!"

Harry nodded. "You did really well—Flint is an idiot for not putting you on the team. Then again, he's an idiot for a lot of other reasons, too. I don't see why Snape doesn't take a heavier hand in the squad—it's obvious he wants to win."

It was true; since Harry's first year, it had become clear to him that the fabled Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry had been extended to Quidditch for a long time, but McGonagall and Snape took it to a whole new level, "politely" sniping at each other over every captured Snitch and dropped Quaffle.

"Because he's an idiot too," Tracey huffed.

"I agree," said a deep, heavily-accented voice from behind them. They turned to see Krum standing there, hunched awkwardly (he really was less impressive on the ground than in the air, Harry thought). "You all played very vell. I look forvard to flying against your team. Especially you, Harry Potter. You fly better than Lynch. And I never got to say...you did very vell in first task. Very vell."

Harry was startled by the praise—sure, Lynch hadn't had his best game at the Quidditch World Cup, but he was still an international-level Seeker, and arguably one of the top five flyers in the world. Plus, Krum hadn't seemed too friendly before the task; maybe blowing up a dragon is one way to get his attention.

"Thanks, Viktor," Harry replied. "I'm looking forward to it, too."

After lunch, the spectators and teams assembled back at the Quidditch pitch. Harry also noticed a slew of reporters—he hadn't seen them before, but he had been focused on the games, so maybe they had been there the whole time.

"Great," he muttered. "Now the whole world will see Krum stomp me."

But when he and Krum shook hands in front of Madame Hooch, the thunderbird within Harry's soul stirred in a familiar way. The beast recognized that a great challenge lay before it, and resolve shot through Harry like current through a wire. There was no way he was going to back down—this game was in the sky, and the sky belonged to _him._

Seconds later, the game began. The Durmstrang players were strong and fast, and matched Harry's team, Bludger for Bludger, pass for pass, and shot for shot. Harry and Krum disrupted plays, dodged Bludgers, and kicked Quaffles, all while feinting, diving, and scanning for the Snitch. For the spectators and reporters, it was like watching a fencing duel between two generals in the middle of a larger battle.

It was Quidditch like Harry had never played. Everything was faster, and it was almost as though strength and speed flowed from Harry and Krum to the rest of the players. Lee Jordan could barely keep up with the commentary, and for once McGonagall didn't have to yell at him for editorializing; there just wasn't enough time for him to get the words out. After nearly an hour, the score was dead even at 50-50 (despite the collective fantastic play of the Chasers, the Keepers and Beaters were all putting up excellent defenses), and the Snitch had been found and lost twice by Harry and Krum. Each time one had been about to catch it, the other had swooped in to cut off the attempt.

Suddenly, Krum dove down. Harry instantly followed in his wake; he remembered Krum's repeated use of the Wronski Feint at the World Cup, but it was possible that he _had_ seen the Snitch, so Harry had no choice but to follow, and hope to be able to pull up in time if it was a feint. The two Seekers dropped straight down from over five hundred feet in the air. By the time they approached the ground, neck-and-neck, both were going much faster than the official maximum speed of their Firebolts. Then, a glint of gold drew Harry's eye upward—the Snitch was across the pitch! Krum was feinting!

Harry and Krum pulled up at the same instant, using every ounce of strength in their bodies to wrestle their brooms away from the ground. Earlier, Krum had said that Harry was a better flyer than Aidan Lynch. Now, Harry proved him right—while Lynch had slammed into the ground after Krum's Wronski Feints, Harry was able to pull out in time, with the tips of his trainers carving grooves in the top layer of snow. Harry rocketed toward the Snitch, leaving a blast of white powder in his wake. Krum saw where Harry was going, but he was already off-course—he was not a professional Seeker for nothing, though, and gave chase anyway. Such was Krum's skill that he was neck-and-neck with Harry within seconds.

Every eye turned to the race. Even the other players stopped paying attention to the Quaffle and Bludgers, knowing that the Snitch was about to be caught, one way or the other. A hush fell over the stands as both Seekers reached out a hand...

Harry raised his fist, with the still-fluttering wings of the golden Snitch sticking out the side, and the assembled crowd erupted. For all the differences between Harry Potter and the rest of Hogwarts, he was still one of theirs, and he had just captained a Hogwarts Quidditch team to victory against the best player in the world. Only seconds later, the rest of his team slammed into him, slowly sinking to the ground in one large pile.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent in celebration; the Great Hall had been turned into a giant buffet, and the students and numerous guests (which had included at least a dozen scouts for professional Quidditch teams, as Harry found out later) milled about, eating, drinking, and generally being merry. Even Harry was having a good time—a rarity for him this year, as he had felt almost obligated to be unpleasant in large groups since the Goblet Incident—and Remus and Sirius were present (the former trying to keep the latter from making a fool of himself, and largely failing). In between pranks and hugs, they told him that Sirius, in his capacity as Harry's godfather and legal guardian, had already been approached by several scouts who wanted to know if Harry wanted to go professional. The general consensus was that every player from that last match had played well above a typical school level—for whatever reason, the stars had aligned, magic had been in the air, and that had been the best Quidditch match ever played at Hogwarts.

The surprise of the night came when Tracey Davis cornered Harry to thank him for picking her for the team.

"...And I guess I should thank Daphne, too," Tracey finished. At Harry's shocked look, she continued. "Come on, it's not that hard to figure out, even though Pansy and Millicent are too stupid to see it. Harry Potter is gone all the time, Daphne disappears sometimes, Daphne knows I love Quidditch, and then somehow Harry knows I love Quidditch?"

"Don't say anything to anyone," Harry pleaded. It was her turn to be surprised—Harry actually seemed worried about it.

"I won't," she promised. "But why do you seem so scared about it? I'm sure she would have gone to the Ball with you if you had asked."

After he explained his and Daphne's suspicions about the second task, she understood, and promised to keep her mouth shut (though she would make no such promise about "girl-talking" to Daphne about him). After she skipped away, still buoyed by the thrill of victory, Harry watched her grab Daphne's arm and drag her over to a corner, presumably to "girl-talk" about him.

Finally, near midnight, the party died down and most of the guests left, though some were too drunk to apparate or even floo, and were led to the guest quarters by house-elves. Remus and Sirius had thought ahead and made portkeys, to avoid that very issue (as both could barely stand, let alone pronounce "Number 12 Grimmauld Place" into a fire); both disappeared after slurring and hiccuping their way through the activation phrases. Harry had packed his things the night before, and would be meeting them at Number 12 the next morning. He needed to put in an appearance at breakfast, to make sure Dumbledore didn't think that he had left with or been taken by any of the guests from the party.

* * *

As Harry prepared for bed down in the Chamber bedroom, Winky appeared.

"Master Harry, Miss Daphne be wanting to come down," she squeaked. "Should I goes to gets her?"

"Yes, please, Winky," Harry replied, pulling on a tee-shirt. "Show her to the bedroom door, and I'll take it from there."

Seconds later, there was a rapid triple-knock on the door. Harry smiled to himself—both Annie and Daphne were creatures of habit. Just as he had learned to pick out Annie's footsteps and door-knock, he had learned to do the same with Daphne. He walked to the door, wondering if that was something that all men did with the women they cared about, or if it was just another thing that made him weird. He pulled open the door, and was again struck by how familiar this picture was: Harry looking baggy and absurd in a doorway, and a beautiful girl standing expectantly, this time wearing a very thin, very sheer silk robe. In the dim, flickering light, he couldn't tell exactly what shade it was, but he knew just from knowing Daphne that it would the same exact deep blue of her eyes.

Daphne raised one perfect eyebrow. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Smiling, Harry stood aside, and Daphne walked inside. By the time he closed the door and turned back around to face her, her robe hung loosely around her body, supported more by her breasts than by her mostly-bare shoulders. The chill of winter did not reach the Chamber, especially within Salazar Slytherin's bedroom, and Daphne's arousal was obvious. Harry's eyes tracked back up to Daphne's. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head a few degrees to the side, and Daphne gave a slight nod. To further punctuate the answer to his unasked—or, at least, non-verbal—question, she allowed her robe to slide all the way off as she closed the remaining distance between them.

That night, the few inhabitants of the castle who were still awake (mostly house-elves) were treated to a few hours of low, deep, rumbling thunder from the dark, cloudless sky.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Intrigue! Politics! Quidditch! Plot developments! Harry gets some!

Why wasn't Dumbledore's expulsion from the Wizengamot and Sirius's questioning and subsequent clearing by Amelia Bones done "on-screen?" Because they didn't need to be, and they would distract too much from the primary plot, which remains centered on what happens with Harry. Short asides with Wormtail or Crouch are one thing, but I didn't want to spend five or ten thousand words on events that Harry won't see directly. He's already put in the input that he's going to in order for those things to come to pass, so I'm able to move on with just the bottom line.

I originally wasn't going to include a Quidditch game (honestly, I never really like reading Quidditch scenes in fanfic, and even the relatively short descriptions of the games were tough for me to grind out), but Harry loves flying, and he loves Quidditch, and a pick-up tournament seemed like just the sort of thing that teenagers would put together, and use to prove to the adults that there was never any good reason to not hold Quidditch that year.

I've always thought it was absurd that there were only six Quidditch games per year—why the hell aren't there more? It's not like it requires any great amount of time or effort to organize, and they don't have to travel anywhere to play. Compare Hogwarts to an American non-magical high school (I'm just assuming that the British schools are roughly equivalent)—there are about a dozen football games, a dozen soccer games, even more baseball games, field hockey, ice hockey, swimming meets, track/field meets, plus dozens of clubs and intramural sports...if a school that can't use magic for shortcuts can organize that many sporting events, than a school led by goddamn Gandalf should be able to figure it out. Also, why weren't there any Quidditch games in canon during Harry's fourth year? The Triwizard Tournament took up, collectively, about five hours of spectator time, and only the first task was interesting to watch (there's not exactly a magical Jumbotron showing what's going on in the Lake or the Maze)—even though it took a lot of effort to organize, Quidditch _doesn't_, and they missed a perfect opportunity to play interscholastic matches, rather than just their normal intramural league.

I decided to include the whole "the Goblet of Fire can judge" thing because I seem to recall a big deal being made of it being an "impartial judge," it seems to me that in a tournament where the headmasters of the schools give scores, an intelligently-written ruleset would have a check against the sort of blatant partisanship shown in canon. _Using_ that rule to get around the judges is one of Harry's ways of showing how ridiculous the tournament is. Remember that he's got two Marauders and a Slytherin "managing his team," so he's going to find ways to twist the rules in his favor.

I've read some of the more prominent HP/Dresden crossovers, including Shezza's Denarian series (which I recommend, as it is quite good).


	27. Harry Goes on Holiday

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

"_Crucio."_

The high hiss cut through the dusty air of Riddle Manor, and the echoes of that cold, flat voice were immediately drowned in screams. The curse was lifted quickly—the Dark Lord needed his attendant to continue to serve him, of course—but he _was _the Dark Lord, and the strength of Voldemort's Cruciatus Curse was such that Wormtail would undoubtedly be twitching in pain for several days.

"M-m-mass-masssterrrrr," Wormtail half-gasped, half-wailed, crying out in agony. "Wha-t d-do you wish of m-me?"

"Get out of my sight, fool," Voldemort's voice hissed.

Wormtail had forgotten—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—a cardinal rule of serving the Dark Lord: make sure someone else brings the bad news. Voldemort was infamous for shooting the messenger. Crouch had sent word to Wormtail that he was almost entirely certain that Severus Snape was a traitor—Dumbledore had expended his own power and influence to keep Snape out of Azkaban far too many times, and now Crouch had overheard Snape and McGonagall discussing Snape's actions to protect Harry Potter against the Dark Lord's own jinx during the boy's first Quidditch game (apparently, what had begun as McGonagall's gloating about "her lions" beating Krum had turned into a reminiscence of Harry's past Quidditch games, including his first). Foolishly, Wormtail had immediately scurried to his master to bring the news; Crouch was probably laughing himself to tears now, knowing that he had doomed Wormtail to such pain.

Losing Snape would be a significant blow, Wormtail mused after choking down several remarkably ineffective pain potions (which were notoriously inadequate for treatment of the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse). Snape was a powerful wizard, a skilled fighter, an excellent potion-brewer, and already within the enemy's camp—as Voldemort was infamous for his temper, Dumbledore was infamous for his foolish trust, and a Death Eater poised as an Order of the Phoenix member would have been invaluable. It was likely that the Dark Lord would allow Snape back into the fold, if for no other reason than his potions expertise, and use him to pass misinformation back to Dumbledore, until such a time as his usefulness ended...at which point, the unfortunate man would become an abject lesson in loyalty for the rest of the Dark Lord's followers.

"Better him than me," Wormtail muttered.

* * *

Harry awoke a little after 8 AM, and slow becoming aware of his own body and Daphne's presence in the bed beside him. First, he noticed a nest of soft chestnut hair underneath his chin. Then, he noticed his left hand, which crossed Daphne's body to cup her right breast, and his right hand, which was splayed out just below her navel. Finally, he noticed her naked bum wiggling distractingly against his thighs—clearly, Daphne had woken up before him.

"Mmm," she hummed brightly. "I see you're...up."

Harry got out of bed a little after 10 AM.

* * *

Where the bloody hell was that boy? Potter had been in the Great Hall for brunch two days before (after how late the party had gone the previous night, there was no way anyone was waking up for an early breakfast), but he had since disappeared, and nobody seemed to know where he was. The problem was that the students and staff at Hogwarts had become so accustomed to Potter being out of pocket that they weren't worried, which meant that _he_ couldn't shake down too many people without someone starting to wonder why the infamously-paranoid and questionably-sane Alastor Moody needed to find Harry Potter so badly. Blast that little toerag!

The one bright spot, though, was that Crouch's thoughts kept turning toward Severus Snape. Crouch had exposed him for a traitor, and the best part was that Wormtail, that simpering, cowardly fool, had been forced to deliver the bad news. The weakling would probably still be aching from the Dark Lord's...displeasure...until the New Year.

Crouch spotted the little Malfoy brat ("Draco," a ridiculous name for a ridiculous child), and stumped over (curse this bloody wooden leg!). If anyone knew where Potter was, it would be Malfoy, who seemed to have an absurd fixation on Potter. Malfoy apparently thought that he was Potter's dark arch-nemesis or something, somehow not realizing how much more powerful and talented Potter was—Crouch had heard that Potter had swatted Malfoy like an insect in every single confrontation the two had ever had, and only Snape's blatant favoritism had ever kept Malfoy from total defeat.

Malfoy, however, turned even more pale at the sight of his Defense professor, and fled behind Snape's skirts (almost literally—he was still peeking out from behind a corner in the corridor, keeping Snape between him and Crouch). The boy had been skittish around him ever since the ferret incident.

"Snape," Crouch growled, not having to pretend to be Moody to put hate into his voice. The traitor deserved whatever punishment the Dark Lord saw fit to inflict, and Crouch desperately hoped to bear witness.

"Moody," Snape sneered back. The traitor's hand twitched toward his wand—it had done that every time he had seen "Moody"—but even someone foolish enough to turn traitor on the Dark Lord was not quite foolish enough to try to outdraw Alastor Moody, who had capped his career with the single-handed (literally, as a piercing hex had shattered his wand arm) quadruple capture of the three Lestranges and Bartemius Crouch, Junior. The battle had demolished a fair portion of the Longbottom estate, but in the end, Moody had stunned and bound four of Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters, despite wounds that might have killed a lesser man. Snape was right to fear Moody's wand; even the Dark Lord had made certain to assign a full squad to counter Moody at any battle he was expected to attend. The fact that it was Crouch, rather than Moody, did not factor into Snape's calculation, thanks to the wonders of Polyjuice Potion.

"Where the bloody hell is Potter, Snape," Crouch snarled. "I've got to talk to him about the investigation into who put his name into the Goblet. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, eh...Death Eater?"

For a brief moment, absolute fury burned in Snape's onyx eyes, before his expression flicked back to its typical blankness. Though he was obviously itching to draw his wand, Snape controlled his rage, spun on his heel, and strode down the corridor and out of sight, his cloak billowing behind him as though trying to catch up.

"Blast," Crouch muttered.

* * *

At that precise moment, Harry Potter was laying on Balandra Beach in La Paz, Mexico. After dragging himself out of the Chamber (he had actually lacked the willpower to do so, until Daphne literally kicked him out of bed) and making an appearance in the Great Hall for brunch, he had gathered his things, snuck off the Hogwarts grounds, and apparated back to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. From there, he and the remaining Marauders had taken an international portkey to Mexico City, and then another portkey to La Paz. Thanks to the time difference, they had been able to finish sleeping off the previous night's party, and had immediately commenced a proper holiday.

The plan for the next several days was for Sirius, Remus, and Harry to relax on the beach, practice their spellwork, and—for Harry, at least—work on the plan for the second task. Harry had picked up some of DuMorne's more advanced books on thaumaturgy (_Fundamentals of Thaumaturgy and Evocation_, while an excellent beginner's text, didn't quite reach the level of complexity his plan required), and was grinding his way through them as quickly as possible, reaching almost Hermione-esque levels of obsession. Everything would hinge on how effectively he could exploit this relatively obscure (but unbelievably fascinating and widely useful) branch of magic. He was currently about four-fifths through DuMorne's excellent _Thaumaturgy in Combat, Construction, and Everything In Between_, and after a brief glance at the waves crashing onto the shore, shot upright in excitement when he remembered the words from the previous chapter that would be the key. Remembering how he had _almost_ become aware of the Jersey Devil, if only he had finished the book he had then been reading, Harry resisted the urge to go finish his plan, buckled down, and kept reading.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass was doing her best to keep from laughing aloud, but it was extremely difficult. The entire staff of Hogwarts was running around in a blind panic, desperately searching for Harry Potter; Dumbledore was a particularly ridiculous sight, looking torn between blazing fury and frozen despair. Rita Skeeter could be seen in a corner, cackling gleefully as she dictated to her Quick-Quotes Quill, alternately looking around at the chaos and down at a letter which Daphne knew came from Harry and contained quotes for her use in the Yule Ball coverage.

"Come on, Anthony," she called to the handsome Ravenclaw, who was talking quietly with his _very close friend_ Terry Boot.

"You know," Anthony said quietly a few hours later as they danced (_he really was an excellent dancer_, she thought distractedly—though she'd rather be dancing with Harry, this wasn't too bad a compromise), "I wonder how long it'll take for them to check the holiday list. I checked earlier, and he never signed it."

_And clever, too,_ Daphne mused with a wry grin. "Probably not until the beginning of term, when Harry points it out to them while they're telling him off. They really have been making it so easy for him to embarrass them."

"Too true," Anthony replied pleasantly, before looking over her shoulder and wrinkling his nose. "And speaking of embarrassing, take a look over there. Weasley is being _himself_ again," he said, rolling his eyes. "And it was such a nice night."

Daphne's laugh rang out, high and clear like a chiming bell. Anthony had a good sense of humor, too. She sighed. _Too bad he isn't Harry—plus, there's that whole other issue_. Suddenly, she couldn't wait for the start of term.

* * *

Harry sighed, torn between his desire to be back at Hogwarts (unsurprisingly, he had been missing Daphne) and his desire to stay with Remus and Sirius in the warm, comfortable, stress-free La Paz. Remus and Sirius—no longer needing to capture Wormtail to prove Sirius's innocence—would be taking a few months to travel (or, in Sirius's words, "go wenching 'round the world"), and would return to Britain in time for the second task. Harry would be taking an international portkey straight to Hogsmeade, entirely skipping the Hogwarts Express (he saw no real reason why he should ever again waste an entire day on that train). He was glad that the time difference was going to be in his favor; he had a feeling that he'd need the extra stamina to weather the storm of self-righteous indignation that Dumbledore and McGonagall would inevitably stir up once he returned having missed the Yule Ball.

Unfortunately, his feeling proved correct. As soon as he entered the Great Hall for dinner (what would be his lunch, having skipped forward six hours), the students began buzzing, and Harry had scarcely re-transfigured his booth before McGonagall descended upon him.

"Mr. Potter!" she demanded sternly. In her rage, her eyes flashed and her native Scottish brogue leaked into her normally-precise and cultured pronunciation. "Where hae ye been? We turned tha bloody school up-side-daen looken fer ye! Ye missed the Yule Ball!"

She continued in this vein for some time, though Harry largely tuned her out, catching only words like "tradition," "embarrassment," "disrespect," "discipline," and "detention" as he dug into the hearty meal. Finally, she either wore herself out or realized that he wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention, and her tirade ceased. She stood, shoulders and chest heaving, with her mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyebrow raised, her arms crossed, and her foot tapping; she was obviously awaiting Harry's apology. Harry was not inclined to supply her with one.

"I think you'll find, _Deputy Headmistress_," Harry said calmly, "that in my absence from Hogwarts, I was in full compliance of both the school's stated holiday policy and the Tournament's contractual requirements. If you care to look at the list of students who agreed to stay at Hogwarts over the break, you will see that I did not sign it"—(Anthony Goldstein's poorly-stifled snort of amusement greeted this statement, and several coins changed hands around the Great Hall)—"and the Yule Ball is not mentioned in the Tournament's contract. In fact, historically, roughly half of all Triwizard Tournament champions didn't attend the Yule Ball, and in some Tournaments, the Ball wasn't even held."

"Mr. Potter, the Headmaster and I—"

"Deputy Headmistress," Harry cut in, not interested in continuing the conversation. "What I do on my time, away from this school, is my business, and my business alone. If the headmaster has questions or concerns related to my academic standing, attendance at this school, or the investigation into who he allowed to enter my name for the Triwizard Tournament, he can bring them to me himself."

The Great Hall fell absolutely silent. After nearly a minute of McGonagall staring at him, speechless, the silence was broken by Professor Dumbledore's tired voice.

"Mr. Potter, please finish your meal, and please report to my office at nine o'clock this evening."

* * *

At precisely 9 PM, Harry Potter waited in front of the stone gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office.

"Move aside," Harry told the gargoyle. The gargoyle, of course, did not move aside.

"The headmaster requested my presence, and he did not give me the password. Move aside, or I will move you, and you'll never move again."

The gargoyle still did not move.

Harry drew his elder and thunderbird feather wand. There was a spell Harry had read about in Earp's _Offensive Magic for Defensive Mages _that he had been meaning to try; it was a modified form of a drilling and tunneling spell (focused on a much smaller cross-section), and was perfect for blasting apart stationary defenses composed of stone or earth. He was halfway through the wand motion and was opening his mouth to perform the incantation when Dumbledore's voice called out to him.

"You're late, headmaster," Harry said flatly.

"You have been so quick to violence of late," Dumbledore observed sadly. "That gargoyle has stood watch over this office for over a thousand years, Harry, and the arts and knowledge that crafted it are lost to us now. Would you truly have destroyed it?"

"Yes, I would have," Harry replied. "If that's what it took to get you to realize that I'm tired of your little games and tests, I would have blasted it to pebbles, and then done the same to your office for good measure. You summoned me to your office; are we going up, or will we hold our conversation in the corridor?"

In answer, Dumbledore led Harry up the revolving stairs (the gargoyle had stepped aside as the headmaster approached). Harry took a seat in front of Dumbledore's desk, and Dumbledore sat down heavily.

"Fawkes is out flying tonight," Dumbledore supplied, seeing that Harry had noticed that the phoenix was not at his perch.

"Good to know, headmaster," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "What did you need to discuss with me?"

"You left Hogwarts during this holiday break," Dumbledore stated, a note of accusation in his voice. "Why would you do that, when you knew you were expected to attend the Yule Ball?"

"You mean to tell me that you really don't already know?" Harry asked, truly surprised; it seemed so blindingly obvious.

"I would not have asked if I did," Dumbledore replied stiffly.

Harry blinked, and continued. "Because for the first time in my entire life, I had people—Remus and Sirius—who loved me and who wanted to show me a real Christmas. If you thought for even one second that I was going to give that up for a dance party celebrating a tournament that someone entered me in as an assassination attempt—and for which everyone in this castle has treated me like garbage for two months—then you are even more insane than everyone already thinks."

This was not the answer Dumbledore was expecting, apparently; his surprise was evident on his face.

"What, did you think that I did it to spite you?" Harry asked. Dumbledore remained silent, but he may as well have shouted in the affirmative. Harry snorted. "What, you thought I was turning into a dark wizard, and the way I chose to show it was to skip a party? I'm not turning dark, headmaster; I'm just trying to survive all the things you keep throwing at me. If you didn't check the sign-up sheet for my name just because you assumed that I'd show up, that was your stupid mistake, not mine."

With a sigh, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, and drew a book from his desk. "Ms. Granger recommended a most interesting book for me to read over the holiday break, Mr. Potter," he said slowly. Harry noted the cover—it was Crane's book. _So he knows that much_, Harry thought. _I wonder if he was able to find out about Wisconsin?_

"I'm surprised you were able to get a copy delivered so quickly," Harry said lightly. "I'm told that they're practically flying off the shelves, and few copies were available in this country to begin with."

"Yes, but despite your efforts last term, I do still have some connections available to me," Dumbledore said casually, though there was a definite tightness in his voice. "The librarian of the largest school of magic in Europe need only ask, and a copy of virtually any text is usually reserved."

"Handy," Harry said dryly. "Have you read it yet? If not, you can skip directly to chapter thirteen, though the acknowledgments on the inside of the cover might also interest you."

"I have read it, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I was...surprised, to say the least. Why did you go to the Pine Barrens? It is known the world over as the home of that particular species of demon."

"Is it?" Harry asked, feigning surprise. "Well, that's good to know. It's a good thing I didn't spend a decade of my formative years in my muggle aunt's cupboard under the stairs—otherwise, I might have missed out on a vast amount of background knowledge that would prove invaluable to my future as a wizard. Oh, wait..."

Dumbledore's jaw dropped, and what little remained of his trademark twinkle disappeared completely. "Harry, do you truly blame me for all that? You must know that I had only your best interests in mind when I left you with your relatives."

"We're not having this conversation, headmaster," Harry said sternly. "The conversation we're going to have is about how my life is _my life_, and I will live it as I see fit, without any further interference from you. You meddled with my life too many times, and you never once let my "best interests" get in the way of using me for your schemes. I breathed free air this summer, headmaster, and I liked it, and I will never accept being someone else's tool, ever again. The sooner you accept that, the sooner I can stop helping you drag your name through the mud—I'm not doing it for fun, you know, I'm just trying to get you off my back. The more you tighten your grip, the more I'll slip through your fingers."

Dumbledore obviously hadn't seen _Star Wars; _if he had, he would have realized that he was being compared to the villain "holding Vader's leash," and he would have been much more offended. Still, though, the headmaster said nothing, fearing that any words he might have would only drive Harry further away. Harry stood, and moved toward the door; opening it, he turned to address the headmaster once more. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it, shook his head and walked out of the room.

Dumbledore's eyes lost even more of their brightness.

"Well, that went well."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Holiday! Dance! Experimental sections with other POV characters! Harry practices diplomacy (badly) with McGonagall and Dumbledore!

First and foremost, I need to say that I'm going on vacation, and therefore will not be writing or updating this story until at least July 8th. Whomp whomp. For my fellow Americans, enjoy your Independence Day celebrations; drink beer, eat meat, and blow shit up (and yes, I plan to do all of those things), because 238 years ago, our forefathers told the king of Britain to go suck a lime. 'Murica! For our friends across the pond, don't fret; we're all buddies again! But still, you know...'Murica!

Speaking of American independence, GBTtown pointed out an extremely embarrassing typo that I made, which then propagated about a hundred times. Specifically, I wrote "Gadsen" rather than "Gadsden," and then simply kept doing it. Ironically, I once corrected (correctly) a friend's pronunciation of that very name. Anyway, I went back and fixed each example of the error, which was a truly tedious task.

This chapter was very difficult to write—honestly, I just want to get to the second task, but I couldn't just timeskip that far. Plus, I've ended up writing it late at night three days in a row, which, well, sucked.

Also, for what I believe is the second time, ladysavay has brought up a good point. Specifically, she asks "what motivated" Daphne to move her relationship with Harry in a more intimate direction. This is something I've been meaning to touch on:

Sometimes I think that fanfiction authors make a much bigger deal of the houses than they should; in many stories, trusting fools are derided as "Hufflepuffish", brashness is "Gryffindoring", and anyone with the ability to plan ahead is a "slimy Slytherin snake". Basically, they extrapolate the "house attributes" to substitute for individual character personalities. It kind of reminds me of when Illyrio Mopatis tells Tyrion Lannister in _A Dance with Dragons_: "You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles." What I'm saying is that the students at Hogwarts are teenagers, dammit. I remember what it was like in middle school and high school—everyone could barely keep their hands off each other. I was in all honors and AP classes, surrounded by IRL Ravenclaws and Slytherins, and everyone was having sex with everyone else, without any further motivation being necessary. _Teenagers don't need an excuse to fuck, because it's al__ready the only thing__ they want to do._ Daphne and Harry have been spending a lot of time alone together; it's practically a miracle that it took them (two teenagers who find each other attractive) nearly a month to bang. If you need a more HP-centric reason, then what is more Slytherin than taking what you want? Daphne wants Harry, so she makes the moves she needs to make in order to get him.


	28. Rider on the Storm

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The next morning saw several of the professors and staff of Hogwarts seated around a large table. It was fairly early—before breakfast—and they were obviously irritated to have been summoned for a staff meeting.

Dumbledore entered the room a few minutes after the last—Alastor Moody—had seated himself, and the quiet chatter died down immediately. The headmaster sat down heavily, and—as was his custom at such meetings—called the staff meeting to order. His blue eyes were not twinkling, there appeared to be extra lines on his face, and he looked _tired_. Madame Pomfrey almost asked him if he was feeling well, but stopped herself—the headmaster knew his business, after all.

"It is probably obvious to you all why you were called here this morning, considering the events at dinner last night," Dumbledore said. If any had been doubting that this meeting was to be about Harry Potter, that doubt was now washed away. "I met with Mr. Potter last night, and found him to be..."

The headmaster's voice trailed off, as he tried to put words to the confrontation. Failing, he sighed, shrugged, and fell silent. The silence stretched for several long seconds, and just as McGonagall was opening her mouth to try to pick up the thread of conversation, Dumbledore continued.

"Mr. Potter made it very explicitly clear to me last night—as he has apparently been trying to do _implicitly_ all year, with varying degrees of success—that he would be looking out for himself from now on. Considering our collective failure to protect him at Hogwarts for a fourth consecutive year, I cannot say that I blame him. Therefore, the faculty and staff of Hogwarts will turn over a new leaf regarding Mr. Potter's treatment."

Dumbledore stopped speaking and looked directly into Snape's eyes, as though daring the man to lodge his customary petulant objections to any "special treatment" for Harry Potter. The rest of the professors flinched, expecting Snape to explode, but Snape merely clenched his jaw and nodded his head curtly.

The other professors breathed a sigh of relief as Dumbledore continued, taking Snape's silence as consent. "I am glad to see that we are all in agreement. Simply put, this institution—and to be frank, my continued stewardship of it as headmaster—cannot survive any more legal or public relations disasters this year, which would surely be the result if we continue to attempt to bring Mr. Potter to heel."

If possible, Dumbledore's eyes developed a sort of anti-twinkle, and he suddenly looked even older and more tired than ever before. "Our—_my—_attempts to subdue him have been clumsy, and he has consistently outmaneuvered me; he has won, and I have lost, and I must concede the game before any more damage is done to this school's reputation. Mr. Potter has proven that he will go to extraordinary lengths to protect his newfound independence, and thus has proven that he deserves to keep it, and any further action on my part will only serve do drive us further apart. Minerva, would you please finish up here? I have other duties to attend to before breakfast—young Percival Weasley is holding yet another conference for the Tournament judges."

With that, Dumbledore rose and strode from the room. McGonagall stood, smoothed her robes, and began, shooting a pointed look at Snape as she spoke.

"Well, I suppose we shall begin with how to address and interact with Mr. Potter, and then we'll move toward conducting ourselves with professional detachment in his presence."

Severus Snape blanched.

* * *

The changes in the way the professors dealt with Harry were not missed by the rest of the students. By the end of the week, it was clear to everyone that Harry had "won" his confrontation with Dumbledore, and the result was vastly reduced pressure from the professors, and finally a bit of common courtesy from Snape. Daphne in particular was impressed (a Slytherin always appreciates when a plot comes together), and was greatly enjoying the side benefits—namely, without professors going out of their way to confront Harry, she was able to spend more time with him down in the Chamber. Between working on assignments, training for the second task, learning extra magic, and their increasingly satisfying sexual relationship, their schedule was quite full, and they were always looking for extra time together.

There was one student, though, who did not take the hint to leave Harry alone. On the contrary, Hermione Granger had begun seeking him out at every opportunity, trying to interrogate him about his activities over the summer in the United States. While the break in their friendship before the first task had stopped her inquiries, reading Crane's book (which she had recommended to Dumbledore on the correct suspicion that it involved Harry) over the Christmas holidays had given her a taste of information, and now she was back on the case.

Things came to a head on the final Friday of January, just after double potions. As Harry sat down for dinner in his booth in the center of the Great Hall, Hermione followed him, and hovered next to the seats on the other side of the booth. After a few long minutes of eating his beef stew and steadily ignoring her presence (and possibly her very existence), Harry heard Hermione clear her throat expectantly.

No longer able to pretend not to notice Hermione, Harry looked up from his food. The two teens stared at each other for almost a minute before Hermione spoke, no longer able to stand the silence.

"Harry, aren't you going to invite me to sit?" she said timidly. Apparently, her isolation—after the trio had broken down, Ron had proven to be ill-suited to a friendship with _just_ Hermione, and had begun to spend time with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, and nobody else seemed interested in being friends with her—had sapped her of some of her previous confidence.

"Hermione, aren't you going to ask?" Harry said, raising his eyebrow. "It seems strange; how do you expect to interrogate me, if you can't even get up the guts to ask if you can sit down?"

He had spoken slightly lower than his normal volume, but students sitting near the central corner of their house tables had heard his words. Hermione flushed and scowled at the light titters of laughter, and asked if she could sit.

Harry grunted out a "yes," and Hermione slid gingerly into the booth. Fully aware that the eyes and ears of the entire Great Hall were now upon them, she asked Harry if he would mind if she cast a privacy charm.

"Why bother?" Harry asked evenly. "I don't care what anyone here thinks."

"Well, I would prefer it," she responded stiffly. "I haven't exactly been the most popular girl in the school recently."

That was an understatement, Harry knew. Hermione had been subjected to almost universal scorn in Hogwarts ever since people had started feeling guilty about turning on Harry (so, roughly since Rita had started publishing anti-Dumbledore articles after the Wand Weighing)—because Hermione had been so close to Harry, the rabble "reasoned" that her betrayal had been worse than theirs, so they had turned on her. It was much easier, after all, than looking inward at themselves, and had the advantage of holding someone else to blame for Harry's estrangement from Hogwarts.

Harry shrugged, and Hermione took his apparent apathy as consent. She waved her wand in a precise circle, muttered a few words in Latin, and suddenly the sounds of the Great Hall died down. Harry didn't recognize the exact spell, but it seemed very similar to a charm that Daphne had taught him (protecting secrets was, after all, a Slytherin specialty).

"I read that book," she began, and then her voice began to rise in volume and intensity, taking on an accusing tone. "The one you got just before Christmas. The one that you were _in and helped write._"

"Is that so?" Harry drawled. "Did you find it an exciting read?"

"Well, yes, actually," she said, blinking and switching to Hermione-book-discussion-mode. "I was particularly interested in—"

"Hermione," Harry said, cutting her off before she could really get going—three and a half years of experience told him that once that train got rolling, it would be hard to stop—"this isn't a book club, and I know you didn't actually come over here to talk about a book, not with me. What do you really want to talk to me about?"

Hermione stiffened, and wrung her hands together, clearly working through some sort of inner dilemma. The silence dragged on for nearly a minute. Just as Harry opened his mouth to tell Hermione (not in so many words) to stop wasting his time, she finally cried out, giving voice to her real question.

"Why?" Hermione blurted out, reaching her hands out toward Harry as though pleading for an answer. "Why did you disobey the headmaster and leave your relatives? Why did you go to America this summer? Why did you get the headmaster removed from the Wizengamot and the ICW? Harry, please just tell me why you are doing all this!"

Harry stared at the girl who had once been his best friend.

Hermione stared back at him with unshed tears brimming in her eyes.

The students and professors in the Great Hall stared at them both, trying in vain to figure out what was being said; even Dumbledore could not penetrate Hermione's privacy spell without overtly casting a counterspell, and he knew that he wouldn't get away with that.

"Remember back in September, after the first potions class of the year?" Harry asked quietly. Despite his tone, there was an intensity in his eyes which, in previous years, would have been unfamiliar; this year, however, had seen that look in Harry's eyes all too often for anyone to mistake its meaning. "Remember when I asked you about _your _summer, and you didn't understand what the question had to do with anything?"

She nodded mutely; Hermione Granger was many things, but "forgetful" had never been and was not now one of them, and that argument—the first time she had ever seen Harry truly angry _at her—_would stand in her memory for a long time to come.

"Well, you've had a few months to think about it," Harry said softly. "Do you understand it now?"

Hermione jerked her head up and down in a nod. The movement shook the tears from her burning eyes, and they made twin streaks down her cheeks. She didn't wipe her tears off, instead letting the run down her jaw and drip onto her robes. Wiping the tears away wouldn't dull the ache in her chest.

"Yes, I think you do understand it now," Harry mused aloud. "I did what I always do, when I'm all alone and my back is up against a wall. That happens to me a lot at Hogwarts, you know."

"You did what you needed to do to survive," Hermione murmured. "I'm sorry for my part in all this, Harry. Really, I am."

Harry nodded. "I believe you, Hermione. I think you really are sorry. But that doesn't change what has already happened this year, and it doesn't change the fact that I'm still all alone with my back up against a wall."

"Can you forgive me?" she asked.

Harry sat in silence for a long moment, thinking, _really thinking_ about whether he had it in him. He looked at Hermione's reddened eyes, and the tear tracks on her cheeks. She still hadn't wiped the tears from her face.

"Maybe."

Hermione nodded again, and the movement jolted fresh tears down her cheeks. The streaks were even more obvious now.

"Okay," she whispered.

Harry waved his wand—Hermione almost jumped, she hadn't even seen him take it out—and suddenly the sound of the Great Hall flooded back into their ears as Hermione's privacy spell was broken.

Hermione Granger got up and left the Great Hall for her sanctuary (the library).

Harry Potter got up and left the Great Hall for his sanctuary (the Chamber of Secrets).

The students and professors of Hogwarts collectively internally huffed in disappointment at not being able to eavesdrop on what had appeared to be a very juicy conversation.

Dinner went on.

* * *

Later that night, Daphne Greengrass snuck down to the Chamber of Secrets, Harry having loaned her his invisibility cloak for just such occasions. The cloak, combined with Tracey covering for her, was once again sufficient to deflect any questions from Pansy and Millicent; luckily, both girls were so unbelievably uninquisitive (and, frankly, unintelligent) that by now they didn't even really bother pressing for details anyway.

Winky brought her down into the main area of the Chamber, where Harry was pacing, obviously agitated. Anxiety was rolling off him in waves—his power was such that his mood was almost palpable even several meters away.

"Harry, are you okay?" Daphne asked. Talking to Granger had obviously rattled him; he looked like he was about to whip out his wand and start blowing things up.

Harry stopped, turned, and looked at Daphne.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I need to blow off some steam, and you need to promise me that you won't tell anyone what you're about to see."

"Of course, Harry, but what are you talking about?"

"You know that I went to America and learned a bit of magic," he started. "But I never told you the real reason I went in the first place."

"Well, I know that, and I figured you'd tell me eventually," she said, raising an eyebrow. "And it seems that time has come. Spit it out."

"Stand back, and stay in the Chamber. Don't go outside—there's going to be a very large storm."

With that, Harry disappeared, and in his place stood a massive bird—a giant black eagle or falcon, some part of Daphne's mind vaguely pointed out as she gasped in surprise and jumped back several feet. The huge bird stared into Daphne's eyes, and then, with a flash of lightning and crash of thunder, the bird was gone, its high shriek still echoing around the Chamber of Secrets.

"Well, that's new," Daphne commented matter-of-factly. Winky, ever helpful, brought her a cup of hot cocoa (without needing to be asked, of course—Winky really was a first-rate elf). Then Daphne sat down, the better to ponder this new development.

* * *

That night, a colossal thunderstorm shook Hogwarts. The wind howled like a wild beast, and melon-sized hailstones smashed against the battlements. Snow and sleet whipped through the air, freezing doors and windows shut. Lightning blasted trees into burning splinters and boulders into molten pebbles, and thunder rang through the castle like a giant bell. Nobody—not even Hagrid—was foolish enough to tempt fate by going outside, instead huddling beneath blankets and trying to ignore the raging tempest. Even Daphne could hear and feel the storm from inside the Chamber of Secrets, deep beneath the school.

Hours later—well after midnight—the storm finally calmed. One last ringing thunderclap echoed across the Hogwarts grounds, and in that same instant, Harry-the-thunderbird appeared in the main cave of the Chamber of Secrets in a flash of blazing light and an explosion of thunder. Moments later, Harry-the-boy staggered toward Daphne (who had dozed off over an hour before, but had just been startled awake), and embraced her tightly.

Harry started talking, and didn't stop—he told Daphne everything, from his treatment at Privet Drive, to killing Quirrell, the basilisk, and the Jersey Devil, to what he saw and heard when dementors were near, to how the majority of his magical power had just that summer been freed from the burden of containing his thunderbird animagus form. He talked until just before dawn, when—still mumbling incoherently—his mental, emotional, physical, and magical exhaustion finally all caught up with him at the same time, and he passed out in Daphne's arms.

* * *

Sunday, February 14 was St. Valentine's Day. Hogwarts was, as usual, decked out in pink, red, and purple. Many students traditionally eschewed the Great Hall on this particular holiday, instead taking their meals in more intimate settings with their boyfriends, girlfriends, and miscellaneous paramours. Nobody noticed that Daphne and Harry were nowhere to be found for the entire weekend.

* * *

Ten days later, Harry Potter awoke on the morning of the second task.

* * *

**Author's Note**

I'm back from my vacation (it was great, by the way)! I swam in a lake, drank lots of beer, ate lots of red meat, and hiked a goddamn mountain.

Dumbledore _finally _gets the picture! The question is, will he stick to his new policy of non-interference? Will the other professors?

This chapter is short. It's more "not-quite-second-task-yet" half-fluff-half-plot, and what happens here is only important for setting the stage for the way people will interact (Harry-professors, Harry-students, Harry-Hermione, and Harry-Daphne).

Why would Harry consider forgiving Hermione, and if that is the case, would he consider forgiving Ron? Harry would consider forgiving Hermione because he would _understand the reason she turned on him_. That is, he knows Hermione's inquisitive nature, and accepts that some actions on his part—blatantly lying about something small (his summer activities) and then clamming up about it—played some role in setting in motion her distrust of him, which led her to break away. How would he feel about Ron? Well, first, do you really think that Ron would actually come to Harry and ask for forgiveness? If he did, remember that he's not asking for forgiveness for the same thing as Hermione. Hermione broke from Harry because she felt that she could no longer trust him (partly because of Harry's own actions), but Ron broke from Harry because of simple jealousy over the Triwizard Tournament (a situation which Harry had no part in creating). Hermione's distrust could be alleviated by reestablishing communication, but Ron will never get over his jealousy of Harry; it's just too deeply ingrained into his personality. Recognizing that, I don't think that Harry would forgive Ron, knowing that it's only a matter of time before the green monster rears its ugly head again.

Keep in mind that through this entire time—as stated in the first paragraph of the second section of this chapter—Harry has been training _hard_ for both the second task, and for general self-improvement. Not only is he continuing his recent obsession with scholarship, but he also now has a girlfriend who he's continually working to impress (and honestly, having a significant other does wonders for motivation). Our little Harry is, in role playing game parlance, power-leveling.

And goddammit, who would have thought that three months would be so hard to grind through? Finally, we're up to the second task! I've got a lot of great stuff planned for chapter 29; trust me, you won't want to miss it! And after the second task, it's another three months until the third task! Oi vey. If there's one thing I'm learning from writing this story, it's the importance of timeskips. If only I had JK Rowling's mastery...

Keep reading and reviewing. Review! Do it; you know you want to! Review! Review!


	29. The Second Task

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

Pre-A/N: Read the Author's Note for this chapter for my discussion on Hermione Granger.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

The moment that Harry awoke in the Chamber bedroom on Wednesday, February 24, he jumped—literally—out of his bed over to his desk, and snatched up the Marauder's Map. He had left it open the previous night, anticipating this very moment, and within seconds, his eyes had located the Slytherin dorms.

_Daphne Greengrass_.

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief and slumped down into his desk chair, the tension draining out of his body. All their secrecy had not gone to waste, then—if Daphne had not been taken by now, she wasn't going to be involved in the second task at all.

A sudden fear gripped him—who _would_ the judges kidnap to use as his hostage? He and Daphne had discussed it several times, and had never really come to any conclusion. Harry wracked his brain, and focused back on the map. His eyes skipped around, alighting by chance upon the library, which was empty save for Madame Pince, rummaging around back in the stacks. The library...

The library didn't have any students in it.

His eyes flicked up to the Gryffindor girls' dorms. Lavendar Brown, Parvati Patil...and that was it.

No. They _wouldn't._

Surely Dumbledore and McGonagall had noticed that Harry and Hermione hadn't even _looked _at each other since that evening in the Great Hall.

Harry groaned in sudden comprehension. Of course they had noticed. Dumbledore probably wanted him to make up with his old friends, and thought that kidnapping Hermione and forcing Harry to save her would be a good way to subtly push them together. That old man truly was a nutcase.

He shook those thoughts—and the attendant irritation—out of his head. The second task would begin in an hour; he had to get focused.

* * *

As Harry entered the Great Hall and began to walk toward his booth, his eyes found Daphne. However, instead of the relaxed smile he expected to see, Daphne's face was set in...fear? Their eyes met, and Daphne held a piece of parchment under the table. An instant later, Harry felt an invisible hand place something in his pocket (they never really seemed to run out of uses for Winky—what an incredible elf!). He nonchalantly sat down, and drew several items from his pockets, making it look as though he was inspecting his tools and equipment for the upcoming task. He glanced down and read the single word on the parchment.

_Tracey!_

The realization hit him like a train. The pick-up Quidditch tournament! Tracey Davis had been a surprise pick, and they must have been seen speaking together at the afterparty, and watched her giddily skip off to go "girl-talk" with Daphne.

He and Daphne had told Tracey their suspicions about the nature of the second task. There was no way she would have willingly allowed herself to be pressed into the Triwizard Tournament; she was far too savvy for that. No, she must have _literally_ been kidnapped.

Infuriated, Harry turned the parchment over, took out a small muggle ball-point pen, and wrote a short note for Daphne.

_Floo parents!_

The instant his hand went beneath the table, the note was snatched out of his fingers. Seconds later, Daphne nodded resolutely and strode from the Great Hall (Harry made a mental note to reward Winky with a new mop or something). Daphne had once mentioned—as part of an amusing anecdote about Malfoy tattling to his father about something—that Snape allowed Slytherin students to make floo-calls to their parents (his fireplace was charmed to prevent students from calling anyone else) from his office. Daphne's parents, close friends of Tracey's parents, would immediately inform the Davises and the DMLE. It didn't even really matter if Tracey had agreed to be used as a hostage—Hogwarts students weren't even allowed into Hogsmeade without written permission from their parents, so there was no way Hogwarts could get away with putting them into the tournament without parental consent. There was no doubt about it: trouble was brewing, and it was going to be _big_.

Harry turned his eyes toward the staff table. Most of the professors had already left for the lake, presumably to finalize preparations and greet parents and spectators, as they had done for the first task in November. However, Professor Flitwick was still there, and he was not particularly surprised to see rage practically radiating off of Harry; if Flitwick had been closer or had a werewolf's nose, he would have smelled the sharp tang of ozone from Harry's turbulent magic. Flitwick and a few of the more sensible professors—including Snape, to the rest of the staff's surprise—had warned Dumbledore and the other judges that forcing students into the Tournament as hostages was a bad idea. What hadn't crossed their minds until this very moment, Flitwick realized, was that kidnapping Harry Potter's friend—or possibly girlfriend, depending on how much one read into his public interactions with Tracey Davis—was an _absolutely terrible_ idea. Flitwick met Harry's gaze, and began to move toward him, but Harry had no interest in hearing whatever excuses and platitudes the diminutive Charms professor had to offer, and stormed out of the Great Hall and onto the grounds, striding toward the lake as fast as he could without running.

By the time he reached the shore, where the spectator stands and a judges' table had been erected, he had wrestled his anger into a much more helpful steely resolve. It was a good thing that he knew that the hostages were in relatively little real danger; otherwise, he probably would have rescued them immediately, without waiting for the task to officially begin. As it was, he simply stood on the pier, concentrating on his plan of attack and glaring at the judges (he noted idly that Percy Weasley, of all people, appeared to have taken Barty Crouch's place). Cedric paced anxiously, Fleur fidgeted with anxiety, and Krum leveled his customary scowl at the judges; apparently, all of the champions held a similarly dim view of the nature of the second task. Harry was sure they would be pleased when he made it his mission after the task to ensure that the DMLE arrested whoever was responsible for kidnapping Tracey and presumably the other hostages.

Finally, Ludo Bagman cleared his throat, cast a quick _sonorous_, and addressed the stands, which were completely filled with students, reporters, and members of the wizarding public. Harry could pick out Sirius and Remus, who—as his designated "family"—had seats with the Delacours (who were glaring daggers at the judges' table), the Krums, and Cedric's father.

"Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One...two..._three!_"

At the shrill shriek of Fleur and Cedric both immediately applied Bubble-Head Charms and dove into the lake, while Krum transfigured himself into some sort of reverse-merman-shark-thing and sped beneath the surface. Harry, however, calmly took off his trainers and socks, walked to the water's edge, and stood with one foot in the water and one foot on land. He vaguely heard the crowd's catcalls and jeers and Bagman's inane commentary—"I wonder what Potter is doing? I guess we'll have to wait and see!"—and ignored everything, concentrating instead on the task that lay before him.

"_Accio,_" he muttered, giving his elder and thunderbird feather wand a token wave. About a second later, a shard of granite plunked out of the water and into his left hand.

This was no random shard of granite, however. After Harry had returned to Hogwarts in January, he had used more gillyweed to make another trip to the village of the merpeople. There, he had confirmed with the merchieftainess that the hostages would be tied to the large, crudely-hewn statue of a merman at the village center, and chipped off a shard of granite from the statue's tail. Then, he had hidden the piece of rock in the water beneath the pier.

While the other champions descended into the water, Harry swiftly transfigured the rock into an exact to-scale likeness of the statue from which it was taken. He had spend over an hour examining the statue, memorizing its dimensions and proportions, and had incessantly practiced turning things into replicas of the statue for over a month—by now, he could practically do it in his sleep. This was a crucial part of his plan for the second task.

Thaumaturgy was a complex branch of magic, but it could be very powerful. Some wizards—particularly in Africa, the Caribbean, and a few places in America—could use a form of thaumaturgy to cast spells on people from very far away, using a doll and a tangible link (like hair or blood). This was popularly known as "voodoo," and its uses were usually harmful, and often identified as dark magic. However, there was no reason why the broader field of thaumaturgy couldn't be useful for more mundane things, as Harry planned to prove. Like voodoo, it was helpful to have a likeness and a link, and with his new mini-statue, Harry now had both; all that remained was to establish the link, and he would be all set.

He closed his eyes, gripped the statue tightly, brought to mind every detail of the stone merman statue which sat in the center of the village at the bottom of the lake, and began muttering under his breath.

"_Idolum ligaveris,"_ Harry intoned, building an imaginary chain between the two objects. "_Idolum ligaveris. Idolum ligaveris. Idolum ligaveris. Idolum ligaveris. Idolum ligaveris. Idolum ligaveris."_

As he spoke, he could feel the stone in his hand grow cold...as though it was sitting at the bottom of a freezing-cold lake in the middle of February. Finally, on the seventh repetition of the spell, he felt the link snap into place, as though a heavy steel padlock had clicked shut on two different lengths of chain. Harry had done it; the link had been forged.

Harry carefully placed the small statue into the water, ensuring that it was completely submerged. Still ignoring the sounds of the crowd and Bagman's dull comments—it was quickly becoming clear that the tournament organizers had not thought this task through (it was very boring for the spectators, as three of the champions were not even visible, and the fourth wasn't blowing anything up)—Harry pointed his wand into the water and cast a modified form of a powerful freezing charm.

"_Glac__io maxima orbis!"_

A translucent sphere of ice began to form around the small replica, and it quickly began to harden and thicken. Within seconds, the walls of the sphere were even thicker than the hollow space in the center which held the statue. At the same time, a proportionally-larger sphere of ice formed around the massive statue in at the bottom of the lake; soon, the ice was so thick that the buoyancy it provided—after all, ice was less dense than water—countered and overcame the weight of the statue, hostages, and water that remained in the hollow space. Physics took over, and as the small statue began to rise to the surface, so too did its big brother. A few minutes after the spheres began to rise, they both broke the surface of the lake. The crowd gasped in shock, and Bagman continued to sound stupid ("Oh ho ho! I wonder how that just happened! We'll just have to wait and see!"). Remus and Sirius whooped and clapped, and began subtly shooting prank spells at the other spectators, taking Harry's cue in making a mockery of the contest. Fred and George Weasley, of course, took notice of their heroes, and joined in on the fun; it was likely that by the end of the task, half the spectators in the stands would have itching powder in their pants and look like clowns.

Harry chuckled softly, knowing that the other three champions probably hadn't traveled even half of the distance to the village. Swimming was slow, tiring work (except perhaps for Krum-the-semi-shark), and Harry hadn't even broken a sweat. Now, though, came the somewhat more difficult part.

Harry was not as naturally adept at manipulating water as Morris or Daphne; honestly, he'd probably never quite reach their level of finesse. However, he did have enough skill to be able to stick his foot in the water and gather energy from the lake. Not thermal energy (for the lake was far too cold for that to be efficient at all), but _kinetic _energy. After all, the lake had tides and waves; even though the wave action was much less impressive than one would see in an ocean, there was still a huge amount of water moving around, and more importantly, it was doing so in a predictable way that Harry could easily conceptualize and perceive. Therefore, he could exploit it.

As with the dragon's flame, Harry took in as much energy as he could; a few discerning observers in the audience noticed that the small waves lapping at the shoreline were steadily reduced in frequency and amplitude, and then appeared to stop entirely. What Harry lacked in finesse with water, he planned to make up in brute force, and having a thunderbird full of energy was a great way to start. With a wordless yell, he pumped all of the energy that he had gathered back out into the lake. Rather than simply blasting water outward as he had done in the first task with lightning, however, he willed a fast-moving wavefront into existence directly behind the huge floating ball of ice. Again—this time, actually a bit winded, due to the relative difficulty of storing the lake's kinetic energy as pure magic and then releasing it back as kinetic energy again, but halfway across the lake—Harry took a break and allowed physics to take over, and watched as what appeared to be the world's largest snow-globe surfed to shore atop the crest of the large wave.

As he watched the Incredible Surfing Giant Ice-Ball, he heard several people yelling at the judges. Harry turned to see two middle-aged couples (presumably the Greengrasses and the Davises) and six crimson-robed Aurors surrounding the judges' table. One of the Aurors, clearly the leader, a tough-looking woman with close-cropped gray hair and a monocle, slammed her hand on the table to interrupt everyone else. Her monocle fell off her face from the force of the palm-strike, and dangled by a chain hooked to her collar.

"Enough!" she roared, with such authority that the entire crowd was silenced, and even Harry blinked. "Enough of this! Albus Dumbledore, you and the other judges will make yourselves available for questioning once this task is complete, and I swear that if you lack an acceptable and reasonable explanation, I will set you _all _before the Wizengamot on the charges of kidnapping and gross negligence!"

Dumbledore—though a long-time politician—did not seem to understand the value of keeping his mouth shut, and tried to placate the enraged Auror. "My dear Amelia—"

"That is _Director Bones_ to you," the woman snarled. Harry connected the dots; this was Amelia Bones, the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, known as one of the most politically and magically powerful people in magical Britain. The fact that she was coming down so hard on Dumbledore, a former political ally of hers, was a sure sign that Dumbledore had well and truly used up all of his remaining political goodwill; if he didn't have an incredibly good explanation or a convenient scapegoat, this latest scandal—actually, crime—might very well ruin him once and for all.

"This is what will happen," she continued, her words hitting with the literal force of law. "After this task is complete, you judges—_yes_, that includes you, Weasley—will all meet me up at the castle, and by Merlin I will get to the bottom of this. Have I made myself clear?"

The judges all nodded silently. Maxime and Karkaroff looked unconcerned, and Dumbledore looked as though he was _trying _to look unconcerned. Bagman and Weasley both looked like they were about to be sick. The Aurors sneered, and kept their wands in their hands, and the Davises and Greengrasses walked back to the stands together and sat with Daphne.

Harry's attention was suddenly drawn back to the task when the much smaller ball of ice (which, incidentally, was actually the size of a regular snow-globe) bumped into Harry's ankle, just as its big brother beached itself on the rocky shore several meters away. The wave had plenty of strength left, and was still high enough that it reached Harry's elbows. Only lightning-fast shielding kept Harry, the Aurors, Maxime, Karkaroff, and Dumbledore (as the judges' table was right at the water's edge) from being drenched by the wave; Ludo Bagman and Percy Weasley, though, were much less competent (and very rattled from Director Bones's tirade), and were soaked through to the bone. The audience in the stands laughed their way out of their Director Bones-induced shocked silence as Bagman and Weasley were knocked out of their seats by the freezing-cold water.

As the water from Harry's wave receded back into the lake, Harry turned his attention to the large ball of ice. It was surprisingly transparent—apparently, the spherical shape had prevented any severe stress from concentrating on any one area, which would have caused thick white cracks—so the hostages were clearly visible. Harry saw Cho Chang, which made sense because she was Cedric's girlfriend, Tracey Davis, a small blonde girl who shared Fleur's features, and Hermione (who, by process of elimination, must have been Krum's hostage; why she had been chosen for that role, Harry had no idea).

With a careful _mobilis_, the sphere was aligned vertically; then, it was just a matter of opening it up to release the hostages. Harry turned his wand back to the small orb, and prepared to cast a strong spell to break through the ice; a simple _finite_ wouldn't work, as the ice had been true-formed, rather than merely conjured.

"_Knuse__."_ The Norwegian Icebreaker—which had been developed to break open ice to allow ships to pass through narrow frozen fjords, back in the days before apparition and floo-travel—caused deep cracks to radiate down from the top of the small globe. The deed done, Harry turned to view the spell's effect on the large sphere.

Aided by the weight of the statue, the cracks made it all the way through the ice, and the orb broke apart with a loud groaning and creaking sound. The ice beneath the statue shattered outward, and the statue sunk into the ground a few inches, remaining upright as the water that had been trapped inside spilled out and carried away huge chunks of ice from the shell. The four hostages, no longer supported by water, hung uncomfortably from ropes around their wrists (none were tall enough for their feet to touch the ground), and—evidently because they were no longer submerged in water—began to wake up from their enchanted slumber, helpfully saving Harry the trouble of casting four _ennervates_.

Four quick _diffindos_ severed the thick ropes that bound the hostages to the statue, and all four girls landed on their feet on the ground, while Harry discreetly cast a silent _finite _on the replica statue, turning it back into a regular shard of granite with no bond to the large statue. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Harry suddenly found himself at the center of a five-way hug; the blonde girl was speaking at him in rapid-fire French, while Cho, Hermione, and Tracey all thanked him for getting them out of the water. Harry noticed that their wet clothes were clinging distractingly to the older girls' _apparently cold_ bodies (Tracey clearly wasn't wearing a bra—somewhat understandable, given that she was in her pajamas), and those bodies were clinging distractingly to _him. _Harry snapped out of his idle musings and abruptly cast several warming and drying charms on the girls before he embarrassed himself, and then disentangled himself from the four former hostages. The small French girl immediately grabbed him around the waist again, but fell silent at Harry turned his intense gaze toward Tracey.

"Tracey," Harry said urgently—her knew they would only get a few minutes before the judges, the Aurors, or Tracey's parents came over. "Tell me what happened, quickly—your parents summoned the Aurors on suspicion of your kidnapping and coercion into this tournament. Did you agree to be a hostage willingly?"

"Hell no," Tracey said, scowling. "One of the prefects told me to report to McGonagall's office last night around nine, and when I got there, McGonagall told me that I was going to have "a minor supporting role" in the second task. I told her that I wanted nothing to do with it, and she told me that I didn't have a choice, because the judges had chosen me. I told her that my answer was no, and then I left. I hung out in the Slytherin common room for a while, and then I got tired and went to bed. I woke up wet, freezing, hanging from that damn rock, and looking down at your ridiculous hair."

"Wow," Harry breathed. "I can't believe that Dumbledore and the judges would be that stupid—I don't think there's any way out of this for them. Go tell your parents and the Aurors what you just told me."

Tracey nodded, and ran off to her parents, followed closely by Madame Bones, who clearly wanted to get Tracey's statement before any Hogwarts professors could coerce her into changing her story. Cho and Hermione watched her go, and turned back to Harry.

"Thanks, Harry," Cho said. Harry couldn't help but notice that Cho's clothes, too, were extremely form-fitting (perhaps having been shrunken by his powerful drying charm after being submerged in such cold water), and that she wasn't bothering to cover herself. Maybe it was her way of thanking him; if so, he approved. "Cedric is going to be a bit annoyed that he didn't get to pull the knight in shining armor routine, but I'm just glad to be out of the water. I agreed to be a hostage when they asked me, because I believed them when they told me that I'd be safe, but I won't make that mistake again—if they're willing to kidnap a student from her bed, nobody can trust a single word they say." _Damn, _Harry though, _it's too bad Rita isn't here—that quote alone would have put Dumbledore in front of the Wizengamot. _Cho's dark, pretty eyes locked onto Harry's. "For what it's worth...I'm sorry for how you've been treated this year, and I wish I could say I was never part of it, but I can't, and I'm sorry for that, too."

Harry nodded, and Cho walked away. Hermione didn't meet his eyes; looking down, she noticed that parts of her were obviously still cold, so she folded her arms across her chest and blushed. Harry gave a small snort of amusement, drawing a brief scowl from Hermione.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of what could only be Fleur's and the small French girl's parents.

"Gabrielle!" the angelic blonde witch cried out with a heavy French accent. Tears of relief ran down her face, and Harry realized that they might not have been consulted about their younger daughter's involvement, either.

"Maman!" the little-girl-who-was-apparently-Gabrielle squealed, and rushed into her mother's arms.

As the beautiful mother comforted her daughter (who alternated between crying from fear and chattering in excitement), her husband—a short, plump man with a dark, pointed beard—stopped an arm's length away from Harry. He had the look of a man accustomed to laughter, but his countenance was deadly serious at the moment. Hermione used the distraction of Monsieur Delacour's approach to withdraw, and avoid having to come up with something to say to Harry; Harry merely watched as she walked over to the stands, and turned his full attention to the approaching Frenchman.

"Monsieur Potter," he said, his accent thick, but not enough to disguise the formality of his tone. "It seems zat I owe you a debt of gratitude, for rescuing my daughter."

The Harry of another time would have downplayed his actions, but _this_ Harry had been lectured on etiquette by his pureblooded girlfriend, and knew that it would only be an insult to the man. "You are most welcome, Monsieur Delacour," Harry replied. "If you do not mind my asking, were you and your wife informed about Gabrielle's involvement in the tournament?"

Monsieur Delacour's eyes flashed in dark anger, and Harry had his answer before the man spoke. "_Non_, we were not," he growled. "I will find the person or persons responsible, and I will destroy them."

"No," Harry said, and the man's eyes flashed again, and Harry's lips curled up in a not-at-all-friendly way as he continued. "_We_ will destroy them."

Monsieur Delacour's glinting eyes and unpleasant smirk matched Harry's as they shook hands. If any more was to be said, though, they would not find out, because their attention was drawn to Fleur Delacour's panicked yelling.

"Gabrielle! _Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she 'urt?"_

Fleur—still soaking wet, with her one-piece swimsuit shredded well beyond halfway to indecency—sprinted to her mother and sister, and embraced them both tightly. The three Delacour women exchanged words almost as rapidly as Monsieur Delacour could translate for Harry, but he got the gist of what had happened. As a veela, Fleur had a great affinity for fire magic, and her powers had been weakened somewhat by submersion in the freezing cold water, to the point that a pack of grindylows (minor water demons) had been able to ambush her, get the better of her, and force her to retreat. She had feared that her failure had actually doomed her little sister to a watery grave, and had barely held it together until she got out of the water and saw Gabrielle with Harry and her parents.

"And you!" Fleur exclaimed, spinning around to face Harry, as Monsieur Delacour left Harry's side to go speak quietly to his wife. "You saved 'er," she said, breathing heavily. Her deep breaths were causing her upper body to move hypnotically. Despite the cuts on her face and arms, she looked more gorgeous than ever, and the long, wide tears up the front and right side of her swimsuit revealed much of the side and underside of her breasts. "Even though she was not your 'ostage."

"Well—"

Anything Harry might have said was cut off in surprise as Fleur embraced him tightly. He was acutely aware of her soft chest pressing up against his body, and nearly fell to her veela allure moments later when she kissed him twice on each cheek. Harry couldn't take his eyes off her backside as she sauntered away, swaying her hips with each step.

"Okay there, settle down, loverboy," a familiar voice said dryly. Harry turned, half-expecting to see Daphne standing with a hand on her hip, a raised eyebrow, and a wry smile, but knowing that—even though that was almost certainly the posture she had taken (it being the quintessential Daphne pose)-he wouldn't see anything at all, since Daphne would undoubtedly be wearing his invisibility cloak. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that you ought to look girls in the eyes? Jeez, if you ogled them any harder, they would have burst into flame. You know, I think that I might actually be a little bit jealous."

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" Harry asked, grinning cheekily at the empty space in front of him. He could tell by the footprints in the sand that she was standing exactly as he had expected. "I guess I'll have to make it up to you tonight in the Chamber."

"Or," Daphne replied, her voice lowered to a sultry, husky whisper as she pressed her invisible body against Harry, "we could get down there as soon as you get your score, and I'll remind you why you ought to stick around."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Bagman's voice cut in—apparently Cedric and Viktor had returned (empty-handed, of course) from the lake while Harry had been speaking to Tracey, Cho, and the Delacours. "The judges have reached their decision regarding scoring."

—"Oh thank God!" Harry muttered, causing Daphne to giggle—

Bagman continued speaking (at length—he was probably hoping that if he took long enough, the Aurors might go away), and Harry tuned him out, only waiting to hear his own name and score. Finally, after Fleur had been awarded 25 points, and Cedric and Krum had each been awarded 30 points, Bagman mentioned Harry's name.

"Finally, Harry Potter used...remind me again what exactly he did, Igor? Right, thaumaturgy, thanks old chap—"

"Thaumaturgy!" Percy Weasley yelled, before adopting a righteous, pompous air (he was probably trying to emulate Barty Crouch, Sr.'s well-known disdain for the dark arts). "Nobody mentioned that before! I just thought he used a really strong freezing charm and summoning charm! Thaumaturgy is borderline dark magic! First he gets away with murdering and stealing the Tournament's dragon, and now he's using dark magic? He should be taken in for questioning by the Aurors, and he shouldn't get any points at all!"

Karkaroff and Maxime chuckled, while Dumblefore and Bagman both facepalmed—this was not the kind of debate that would cast a good light on the judges, and since it was Percy bringing it up, it would look bad for the British Ministry, too. Smirking, Harry cast a quiet _sonorous_ and addressed the judges. He had wondered whether any of the judges would object to his methodology, but he had thought—especially considering the Auror's involvement over the kidnapping of hostages—that they would let it slide.

"Borderline dark magic? What does that even mean?" Harry said sarcastically. "I happen to know thaumaturgy is perfectly legal in Britain unless it's used to break any existing laws—"

"That's just because the Wizengamot never got around to banning it!" Percy cut in harshly. His face was beginning to turn a bright shade of red—he was probably realizing that he had made a huge mistake by bringing this up, but his only option at this point was to ride it out.

"Just like they never got around to banning, oh I don't know, _kidnapping children? _Oh, wait, how silly of me, that's exactly why those Aurors and the director of the DMLE are here waiting to interrogate you all." Percy's face reddened further at the crowd's jeers. "Meanwhile, I _saved _four children from a watery grave, and you've got a problem with how I did it?! Just think of what the papers will say: 'Tournament Judges Kidnap Children; Ministry Official Accuses Harry Potter of Dark Magic for Rescuing Them!' Personally, I can't wait to see tomorrow's _Daily Prophet_. How about you, Weatherby?"

The crowd erupted in laughter, and Daphne was by now giggling uncontrollably (and invisibly) behind him. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Rita Skeeter scrawling frantically with a malicious grin on her face, and her photographer was taking shot after shot of Percy's ever-reddening face. "Please continue, Mr. Bagman—I believe you were about to say how I did?"

"Right, right," Bagman murmured, wiping sweat from his brow and wishing fervently that someone else was in the spotlight. "As I was about to say, Harry Potter _cleverly _used a rare and powerful branch of magic known as thaumaturgy to great effect, rescuing all four hostages! Therefore, it is only appropriate that we once again award him full marks. Harry Potter remains in the lead going into the third task!"

Still sneering condescendingly (Harry was just trying to imitate how Malfoy would look—say what you wanted about the little ferret, but it couldn't be denied that he could sneer with the best of them), Harry gave a deep, clearly-ironic bow toward the judges' table, and strode off toward the crowd to talk to Sirius and Remus, who were positively howling with laughter.

"Harry!" Sirius cried out, clapping him on the shoulders. "That was brilliant, lad!"

Remus, still chortling, agreed. "I can't believe they actually let Weasley open his mouth. I almost feel bad for Arthur...he's going to be the butt of even more jokes around the Ministry after this."

"And that Fleur!" Sirius said proudly. "Great work! Now that is a mighty fine-looking piece—"

"_Et hem_," Daphne's voice cut in before Sirius could get any dirtier. "You might be interested to know that Harry's _girlfriend _is standing right here, listening to you all talk about that brainless French tart. Harry, care to introduce me?"

Harry blinked—they had never really talked about what to call their relationship—and immediately filled Sirius and Remus's stunned silence with a brief introduction.

"Padfoot, Mooney, meet Daphne Greengrass," Harry said hastily. "Daphne, this is my godfather, Sirius Black, and my god-uncle, Remus Lupin."

"Charmed," Daphne said dryly, and Harry rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, Remus's eyes were getting suspiciously watery—he was clearly quite touched that Harry had so matter-of-factly (as though it had been perfectly obvious) included him in his little family.

"Daphne's under the cloak right now—we've been keeping it quiet, since we didn't want to get her involved in the Tournament. Plus, her housemates might make problems for her."

Remus hummed, knowing that Daphne was a Slytherin. Last year, she had been one of the highest-scoring students in his third-year classes, and she had seemed to keep herself separated from most of the others in her house. He briefly feared that Sirius would make a big deal over her being a Slytherin—a fear that Harry clearly shared, based on the apprehension clearly visible on his face—but his fears were soon put to rest.

"Hmm," Sirius said thoughtfully. "Is she as good-looking as her mother? I remember back in sixth year we had a detention together, and she did this thing with her—"

"Yes Sirius thank you very much we don't want to hear about it!" Harry yelped, covering his ears as Daphne cried out "Too much information please stop talking!"

Remus and Sirius laughed, and after a few more minutes of jokes and comfortable small-talk, Harry and Daphne promised to mirror-call the Marauders soon, and Remus and Sirius moved off to go chat up a pair of blonde witches that Sirius had sniffed out. Harry and Daphne took the opportunity to escape from the crowd of people milling about, and practically ran back to the school. After all, they had their own little victory party to attend.

* * *

**Author's Note**

The long-awaited second task! _Finally! _Hostages are literally taken hostage! Harry uses thaumaturgy, and wrecks the second task the Black Family way (he sort of cheats)! Madame Bones yells at people! Everybody kisses Harry! The Marauders meet Daphne (kind of)!

Note: Harry's been reading a lot of non-standard books, and Daphne has been helping him out. The spells _i__dolum ligaveris, __g__lac__io maxima orbi__s, _and _knuse _are non-canon; credit goes to Google Translator. They mean (roughly) "bind statue," "maximum frozen sphere," and "shatter," respectively.

Thaumaturgy is a common type of magic in many fantasy books, and I always thought it was strange that the word "voodoo" never made it into Rowling's books. In _HPatLS_, thaumaturgy—like channeling and the Native American animagus ritual—represents Harry's independence from the typical British ideas of magic. Plus, I think it's pretty cool, and with proper preparation, it could be much more useful and powerful than many of the "regular" spellwork taught at Hogwarts. Tell me how you think the second task went! And really, you must have expected Percy to make a fool of himself.

On Chapter 28: I think that I made a few mistakes in chapter 28, such that it was probably the weakest chapter I've written so far. In particular, I think that most or all of Dumbledore's staff meeting should have happened off-screen; maybe I should have included just an introduction, cutting off after Dumbledore says he met with Harry the previous night. The rest of that section was unnecessary—readers could infer from the beginning of the next section that Dumbledore had told the professors to lay off Harry. I just got caught up with the idea of having Dumbledore telling his staff that his position as headmaster is barely tenable, and can't survive any more Potter-related backlash.

More importantly, I want to clarify something, because I think—based on several reviews giving opinions on whether Harry should forgive Hermione—that another fault of chapter 28 was that it may not have been sufficiently clear to the reader. The ambiguity was likely due to me trying to be all subtle and literary and shit, but unfortunately I'm apparently not very good at that yet. Specifically, why was Harry so upset after his discussion with Hermione? Remember, Harry has started thinking before making his decisions. In chapter 28, "Harry sat in silence for a moment, thinking, _really thinking_ about whether he had it in him [to forgive Hermione]". He thinks. And then he tells Hermione "maybe." The thing is, he is definitely not an indecisive young man, so both teens know that "maybe" isn't really an answer Harry would truly mean—so what was his real decision, that was painful enough that he couldn't come right out and say it? Because he _did_ decide, and I think Hermione, who is a perceptive young woman with three years of close friendship with Harry (enough to know what that "maybe" actually meant, coming from him), knew what he decided, too. That's why she sort of brokenly accepts his decision with more tears and a whispered "okay," rather than thanking him, and that's why she fled. Both of them know that what Harry is really saying is that he can not and will not forgive Hermione, and that their friendship is broken beyond repair.

And then you have Harry, who has just finished putting the final nail in the coffin of one of his oldest and only friendships—of course he's going to be upset! That shit hurts, especially if you're a teenager, and even more so for a teenager who probably has some serious abandonment issues by now. Even worse, he's absolutely enraged at Hermione because she couldn't just let things be, and instead she put Harry on the spot and _forced_ _him_ to kill their friendship. It's the difference between your dog dying peacefully in his sleep, and having to take Old Yeller into the back yard and put him down yourself—she could have just let their already-estranged relationship die off quietly, but instead she tore open the still-healing wound, and then forced Harry to be the one responsible for killing it once and for all, just because she couldn't keep her nose out of his business. Harry's in a glass cage of emotion, and his only recourse is to vent—the perfect recipe for a bigass thunderstorm.


	30. Consequences and Conversations

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

Pre-A/N: Read through the Author's Note for this chapter for my discussion on pairings.

**Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar**

"_Crucio!"_

Wormtail screamed in pain, tearing his skin and flesh on nails protruding from the rickety old hardwood floor and neither noticing nor caring—compared to the Dark Lord's Cruciatus Curse, such injuries of the flesh were negligible. _It's __like déjà vu all over again__,_ he thought dimly as the curse ceased. It was a muggle phrase that Lily had often said when the Marauders pulled a prank or did something equally ridiculous that reminded her just who she was dealing with. Apparently some sort of bear had said it, or something—Lily had tried to explain it a dozen times, but the pureblooded Marauders had never quite understood.

Wormtail had once again been forced to deliver bad news to his master. On a routine mission to kidnap a few more virgins for the Dark Lord's potion (to Wormtail's delight, one of the muggle teens had not turned out to be a virgin, so he had been free to use her as he wished; she hadn't even begged at first, perhaps hoping that he might be gentle—of course, her hope was in vain, and she had died screaming in pain and misery), he had had the misfortune to pick up a _Daily Prophet_ from the previous day. Apparently, Harry Potter had made quite an impression during the second task.

Wormtail had hoped that his master would be pleased—after all, he reasoned, if Potter were truly capable of such powerful magic, surely the Dark Lord could only gain from using the boy in his plan. Unfortunately, Wormtail had forgotten that the Dark Lord's moods were unpredictable, and Wormtail's delivery of the news had been a bit too descriptive of—and perhaps a little too impressed with—Potter's skills. The Dark Lord had taken it as praise for his greatest foe, and now Wormtail was choking on his own bile and wallowing in his own filth, all while shaking from head to toe from the residual pain of the Cruciatus Curse.

"Get out of my sight!" the Dark Lord roared—somehow, that high, cold, flat voice managed a terrifying roar, though one might think it much better suited for softer, quieter threats of dire harm. Wormtail instantly obeyed, dragging himself (as his legs could not yet support his weight) out of the room. Maybe he'd work on his Imperius Curse and go find a virgin of his own, he mused—anything to take his mind off his pain. If someone else suffered for it...well, that wasn't really his problem, was it?

* * *

Harry was surprised, on Friday morning (two days after the second task), to see Albus Dumbledore—looking very much not like a prisoner of Azkaban—sitting at breakfast. The headmaster had not been seen by staff or students since he and the other judges had disappeared into the DMLE's custody; it seemed that he had somehow managed to keep himself out of prison. Even more incredibly, he still held onto his office as headmaster of Hogwarts.

The flurry of owls bearing issues of the _Daily Prophet_, though, cleared up at least that last issue. Though the first page was entirely dedicated to Harry's victory in the second task (hilariously, Rita Skeeter had used Harry's sarcastic jibe at Percy Weasley as the title of her article: _**Tournament Judges Kidnap Children; Ministry Official Accuses Harry Potter of Dark Magic for Rescuing Them!**_), the second page described Albus Dumbledore's crimes in detail.

Harry was interested to see that, aside from clearly throwing Percy Weasley under the bus (he was exceedingly unlikely to remain employed at the Ministry), Rita had shown a great deal of mercy to the Ministry in general. Some back-room accord must have been reached, in which poor Weatherby had been sacrificed in the name of public relations, and Rita focused her article on Dumbledore. Karkaroff and Maxime, after all, had some measure of diplomatic immunity, so it would do little good to have the public up in arms against them, and Bagman was a British Ministry of Magic department head, and thus was presumably shielded by the deal that had been struck with the _Daily_ _Prophet_.

Reading between the lines, it was clear to anyone with half a brain that a second deal had been struck, this time between Albus Dumbledore and the Minister himself. Knowing how the Minister operated, Harry assumed that a massive amount of gold must have changed hands, and Dumbledore had probably been forced to make other concessions as well. In addition, Dumbledore had been forced to pay "an undisclosed sum" to the Grangers, the Davises, the Delacours, and the Changs—despite the fact that Hermione and Cho had agreed to be hostages, they were not of-age, and their parents had neveer been consulted. Even more notably (and worse for Dumbledore), the Hogwarts Board of Governors would convene over the weekend, and hold their own trial for Albus Dumbledore, not for his life or freedom, but for his position as the headmaster of Hogwarts. Rita predicted that by the beginning of the next week, Hogwarts would be under new management. Harry could only hope.

"Harry Potter."

Harry looked up, startled by the gruff, accented voice that had said his name. Viktor Krum, who had spoken, was flanked by Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory, and the three champions were standing next to the opposite bench of the booth.

"May we seet at zis booth?" Fleur asked.

"Feel free," Harry responded.

Cedric and Viktor sat down across from Harry, and Fleur slid into the space next to him, snuggling up somewhat closer than was strictly necessary. Harry raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Cedric opened his mouth to begin speaking, but Viktor held up a hand, silencing the Hufflepuff, and took out his wand. A few privacy spells later, the four champions knew that anything said at the booth would not be heard—and would barely be seen—by any of the hundreds of suddenly _extremely _interested onlookers and would-be eavesdroppers. Viktor nodded at Cedric to continue.

"So Harry," the "Real Hogwarts Champion" began, "it's becoming very clear to the three of us that this tournament...it's not exactly as glorious as we had originally been led to believe."

"_Oui,"_ Fleur continued throatily. "Zis competition 'as become a joke—even more 'zan it was when eet began. Zee question izz not what will ze champions do, but what crime will ze judges commit!"

"Ve vanted to thank you," Krum rumbled, "for maykink it clear to us vat is important. You saved all four hostages—"

"You rescued _ma soeur_," Fleur breathed. She had begun to press her chest against Harry's side, and he was extremely glad that he was seated, as her "thanks" would be making him very...obvious...if he had been standing. _You already have a girlfriend, you already have a girlfriend_, he chanted to himself internally, desperately trying to ignore the way her soft curves seemed to mold perfectly to his body. He was especially glad for the privacy charms that Viktor had cast; if Daphne had been able to see what was happening, she'd blast Fleur's head off, and his likely wouldn't be far behind. As it was, her veela allure was leaking beyond the borders of the privacy charm, turning several boys in the vicinity into drooling idiots (terribly unfair, considering that they were unable to at least earn it by gawking at her).

Cedric cleared his throat, and continued. "The bottom line, Harry, is that there's clearly something dark at work here, and we all know it, even if we didn't want to believe it at first. When it comes to us and the judges...well, we're of the opinion that the champions should stand together. If nothing else, we can watch each others' backs. What do you say?"

Harry considered the offer, such as it was. Basically, the other three champions were offering their goodwill and tentative friendship, and asking nothing that he wouldn't give them for free (that is, sticking it to the Tournament judges). Despite the lingering irritation he still felt about how the other champions had reacted during and after the Goblet Incident, it was still an easy decision. He grinned, and stuck out his hand.

Cedric and Viktor put their wand hands on top of his, and Fleur did the same, sighing as her hand—which had been sliding up Harry's trouser-clad inner thigh—left the warmth of Harry's body, as Harry internally sighed in relief (he wasn't certain what would have happened if it had reached its original destination).

"I'm in," Cedric said, grinning.

"And I," Viktor rumbled.

"_Moi aussi,"_ Fleur sighed, already feeling tired from pumping out so much of her aura—it was truly amazing to be sitting with three strong, virile young men who were more or less immune to it.

"We're all in this thing together," Harry intoned. "The least we can do is make sure we all make it out."

* * *

The headmaster's office was silent. Fawkes made no sound, the whirring, puffing, and blooping instruments had been put away, and the human occupants of the room were engaged in a staring contest.

Albus Dumbledore stared at Harry Potter, and Harry Potter stared right back.

Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick stared at the scene before them; never in their years at Hogwarts had any student sat so fearlessly before Dumbledore's gaze. Harry showed no sign of wavering, and, to the absolute shock of the two professors, Dumbledore broke first.

"It is good of you to come see me, Harry," the ancient wizard said, attempting to adopt his normal jovial tone. "But do you really think it necessary to have an audience? Of course, I mean no offense, Filius, Minerva."

The two professors inclined their heads; no offense was taken, as they had practically jumped at the opportunity to see Harry and the headmaster interact behind closed doors. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"It seemed prudent to have witnesses present," Harry drawled. Flitwick and McGonagall blinked, wondering if somehow Severus Snape was speaking out of the boy's mouth. "After all, you've recently developed a bit of a reputation. Granted, I'm not currently asleep in my bed, but one can never be too careful."

Dumbledore had to stop himself from wincing, but there was a distinct tightening of his jaw. His normally-bright blue eyes dimmed a little bit. Before he could respond, Harry continued.

"I was pretty surprised to be summoned here, actually," he said; his tone was casual, but the sharp glint in his eyes betrayed more than a little anger. "I was certain that you would have been fired. Ah, well, can't have everything, I guess. How exactly did you manage to stay out of Azkaban, by the way?"

"Bribery, of course," Dumbledore said flatly, his eyes dimming even more. McGonagall gasped—she had never really thought things had gone that far—but Flitwick was unsurprised. Fawkes crooned mournfully. "Much of the Dumbledore family fortune now lines Cornelius Fudge's personal vault, and most of the remainder sits with the families of the hostages."

"Still, I imagine it was difficult to make that deal—what did Lucius Malfoy have to say about it?"

Dumbledore's jaw tightened, and anger flared in his eyes briefly. "Lucius was the reason it was so costly. He engaged in a bidding war, of sorts, driving up the cost of the bribe—he knew that I would pay anything and everything to make this go away, so Lucius made sure that doing so took the bulk of my wealth. The Minister, of course, approved wholeheartedly, and happily took home much more money than he had anticipated."

"And how did you keep your job?" Harry asked, his tone still light despite the subject matter. "I can't imagine the Hogwarts Board of Governors would be bribed, with the safety of their children and grandchildren on the line."

Dumbledore's eyes dulled considerably. "Effectively, I did not keep my position. All major decisions are remanded to the Board, and I had to agree to resign at the end of this term. Even more, Professor McGonagall may very well be denied the position next year, simply because she was _my _chosen successor."

This, at least, was not news to McGonagall; she carefully kept her expression blank, while Flitwick—to whom it clearly _was_ news—had to bite back a cry of outrage.

"So let me summarize this incident," Harry said cheerfully. "Maxime and Karkaroff are pretty much diplomatically immune, and international politics makes up the difference, Percy takes the bullet for making the Ministry look bad for accusing me of dark magic, and Bagman is too high-ranked to be saddled with any guilt, or else the Fudge's administration looks bad. That leaves you holding the bag, and it's cost you Hogwarts and all your gold. How could you have failed to see this coming? I mean, _you kidnapped and endangered children_. Are you so accustomed to centering your plots on orphans that you forgot that other children actually have people looking out for them?"

McGonagall choked, and Flitwick stiffened. This was unbelievable—sure, Harry Potter was Harry Potter, but Albus Dumbledore was _Albus Dumbledore_, and _nobody_ talked to Albus Dumbledore like that. It just...wasn't done.

Dumbledore, though, was clearly in no mood to defend himself. He looked..._deflated_, as though someone had simply sucked all of the life out of him. The headmaster slumped in his chair, and Fawkes gave another low, sad "caw."

"Now that we've got that pleasant bit of business out of the way," Harry continued, his voice finally taking on the dark sarcasm that had been shining in his eyes, "why, precisely, did you summon me to your office _this _time? It can't just have been to make sure we were all on the same page about you betting everything you had on a meaningless task in meaningless tournament, for no real reason, and losing." Harry had finally gone too far; McGonagall opened her mouth to scold him, but Harry continued unabated, his tone downshifting into an accusation. "You called me up here because you want to try to pull some information out of me, so for _once_, why don't you make this quick and just ask your questions, and we can all go our separate ways? I'm already missing Herbology."

As Harry stopped speaking, Dumbledore held up a hand in McGonagall's direction, keeping her from flying off the handle at Harry—despite his sudden excellence in all of his classes, the boy had been trying her patience and tolerance all year, and she was finally ready to give him a piece of her mind—and addressed Harry.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said softly, "you are right, in saying that I have made many mistakes this year, and this most recent one was far beyond what I should have expected to commit without consequences. However, I have been doing these things to try to _help you._ Your estrangement from your peers and the wizarding community, the change in your personality from previous years, the magics you are wielding—do not think that your use of blood ritual magic has gone unnoticed, the signs are obvious...you have told me that you are not becoming a dark wizard, and I believe that _you _believe that, but these are all signposts lining a dark path. I would not see you take that path! I cannot think of a world where the son of Lily and James Potter becomes a Dark Lord!"

Harry was stunned. On the one hand, it was further evidence that, for all his scheming, vast bias toward inaction, and general bumbling idiocy, Albus Dumbledore was generally a good guy. On the other, it showed Dumbledore's _absolutely staggering _arrogance—just because he was Albus Dumbledore, self-proclaimed paragon of the Light, he thought he had the right to try to control any and every aspect of Harry's life that he could get his hands on? Harry had to physically shake his head to clear his thoughts, and stood up to leave.

"I've told you, time and again, what I want with my life." Harry's voice was almost a whisper, but in the deathly-silent office, he may as well have been shouting; the headmaster and the two professors could hear the barely-restrained fury anyway. They all noticed the sharp tang of ozone saturating the air; in his anger, Harry was allowing the thunderbird to make its displeasure known. "All I've ever wanted was to be normal, and have a normal life, with people who care about me. And here I thought you had finally gotten the picture! I don't understand why you think you have the right to dictate my life to me, when you're nothing but a schoolmaster, and not a very good one at that. If I had known that this meeting was just going to be more of you trying to justify your crimes to me, then I wouldn't have bothered to come. Have a nice day, professors. I'm going to class."

The heavy oaken door slammed shut behind Harry as he disappeared down the revolving staircase, and the scent of ozone began to dissipate in the wake of his departure.

Flitwick was the first to find words after the long silence.

"Really Albus, I thought you were turning over a new leaf?"

McGonagall followed the diminutive Charms professor out of the office, leaving Albus Dumbledore to his thoughts.

Fawkes crooned softly, and Dumbledore looked at the phoenix.

"Hmm..."

The aging headmaster strode to the bookcase that he used for biographies, and pulled down a slender text about an old American.

"I wonder..."

* * *

An unexpected visitor graced Harry's booth that afternoon at lunch.

As was now the norm when someone approached the booth, the Great Hall fell silent (even the small corner of the Gryffindor table where several redheads were celebrating Ron Weasley's birthday by pranking him mercilessly). This visitor, though, was almost unthinkable.

Draco Malfoy asked for permission to sit.

Harry Potter nodded.

The two stared at each other silently for a few moments; under the table, Harry had his elder and thunderbird feather wand pointed directly between Malfoy's legs, ready to end the Malfoy line at the slightest provocation. The two had had almost no interactions this year; after Moody had transfigured Malfoy into a ferret, the only words they had spoken had been about the "POTTER STINKS" badges, and even that hadn't gone very far. Since Harry had blown away the Horntail, Malfoy had kept his distance, too intimidated to risk provoking him again.

Maybe Malfoy was just saving it all up for right now.

The Great Hall collectively held its breath.

"Tracey Davis," Malfoy said casually. "What is the nature of your relationship with Tracey Davis?"

Or maybe not.

The Great Hall released its breath.

"I barely know her," Harry responded simply. Inwardly, he was marveling at Malfoy's cordial tone; it lacked all of his customary pretentiousness and condescension. Where was this going? "In fact, the only times I've ever spoken to her were at the pick-up Quidditch tournament, the party afterward, and after I pulled her out of the lake."

Malfoy blinked in surprise, and quickly brought his expression back under control. Potter's voice practically _rang_ with veracity—over the years, Malfoy had sparred verbally (and otherwise) enough with him to know the sound of Harry Potter stating the truth.

"So you are not...together?"

"No, Malfoy, we are not together. In all honesty, I don't see why you care one way or the other—you must know that she's not the type who would want anything to do with you."

Malfoy paused, stifling a remark about Tracey's inferior status as a half-blood, and spoke again, carefully keeping his tone light (not that Harry bought that for a second). "Are you not concerned what people will think of her? Surely you know that if people believed her to be connected to you, it makes her a target. Especially in Slytherin, where you can't reach her."

"I'm not too worried," Harry said with a casual shrug, but his eyes hardened and narrowed, and Malfoy could suddenly half-smell-half-taste ozone. Harry's amiable tone was further belied by his next words. "You know, since if anything happened to _anyone_ on account of their alleged connection to me, well...that would get my attention. Lately, people who have drawn my attention haven't done so well."

Harry's eyes flicked up to the head table, and the gesture was not missed—Draco Malfoy was a fool, but he had learned at the foot of his father, who was a capable politician and wizard. Draco nodded, and stood to leave.

"And Draco," Harry called softly. Malfoy blinked—Potter rarely used his first name, except to make fun of it—and turned back. "You might be surprised just how far my reach really goes."

Malfoy turned and walked away, his footsteps the only sound echoing through the Great Hall. He hadn't liked the look in Potter's eyes, just then. He would have to make sure everyone understood that Tracey Davis was to be left alone (except for the normal insults about her being a half-blood, of course); Potter might be bluffing, but it didn't hurt to be cautious, and it might _really_ hurt if it turned out he wasn't bluffing. After all, everyone had thought that the bottom of the lake had been out of Potter's reach, too.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Wormtail has a bad time! Dumbledore feels the consequences of his actions! Harry gets mad! Dumbledore starts putting clues together! Malfoy narrowly avoids being splattered all over the Great Hall!

I feel that I should point out that as of Chapter 29, I've eclipsed the word count of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone_, which was ~77K words; it's just kind of exciting to realize that I've written essentially a novel-length fic on my first at-bat. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. At the end of Ch. 29, _Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar_ was at ~79800 words (once all the disclaimers and Author's Notes were removed)—and yes, I did compile every chapter into single ODT file solely for the purposes of getting an accurate word count (it was a huge pain in the ass). I'll keep a running count from now on; **a****s of the end of Chapter 30, **_**HPatLS**_** is at ~****83335**** words**.

I'm glad that people seemed to like the way Harry dealt with the second task. I've always seen the second task as a test of cunning (champions had to figure out the clue from the egg, and then come up with a way of dealing with the task), in the same way that the first task tested courage in the face of the unknown, so having Harry come prepared, using rare and powerful magic, and exploiting the environment seemed appropriate. Honestly, I was never really impressed with the way the champions dealt with the second task in canon—I'd think that a witch or wizard would be able to come up with something pretty spectacular, given a few months to prepare, but all any of them actually did was come up with a way to breath underwater, and then swam to the mer-village (lame, right?). My Harry shows why the word "wizard" comes from "wise"—he uses his brain, and ends up working smarter, not harder.

I've gotten several PM's and reviews asking about the "pairing" for this story. I'm reluctant to come out and say anything about that, for a few reasons. First, I don't—and never did—intend for romance to be the (or even a) central focus of the story, as it is in many fics—honestly, I don't believe that it would be appropriate or believable, considering the fact that the protagonist is literally a child. Yes, he has sexual encounters, but never really "on screen," and it's not something on which I want to focus too heavily. Second—and probably more importantly—identifying a fic as having a specific pairing would literally make things less interesting for the reader, despite satisfying an initial curiosity. For example, say I tagged this story with a "Ginny W." pairing—the reader would know ahead of time that first Annie and later Daphne were not sticking around, so the reader's impression of the depth of Harry's relationships with those characters would be skewed. I'll say this: at this point in the story, Harry has been with (more precisely, spending time with and sleeping with, and only recently "dating") Daphne Greengrass since before the Christmas holidays, and things are looking good between them.

Finally, it is rapidly becoming clear to me that I have a much more active social life than I had originally thought, and it has become increasingly difficult to find time to sit down and write. So, in all likelihood, I'll probably be "officially" slowing down to one chapter per week ("unofficially" it's been that way for about three chapters).


End file.
